


Fight For You

by TheGreatIllusion



Category: Brittana - Fandom, Faberry - Fandom, Glee, Quintanna
Genre: F/F, Falling In Love, Love, Love/Hate, MMA, Mixed Martial Arts, UFC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2018-12-17 01:08:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 44,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11840820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreatIllusion/pseuds/TheGreatIllusion
Summary: In the harsh world of Mixed Martial Arts, both Rachel and Quinn have one goal: to be the best Women's UFC Strawweight Champion that ever was. Between their checkered past and the bright lights of greatness that propell them forward, will they fight for love?





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I uploaded this story before but deleted it because it wasn't all that well executed in my opinion. I know much more about mixed martial arts now, and that world, and I'm better equipped to write faberry in that world as a result. So, all these years later when the faberry fandom is much quieter unfortunately, I have begun to re-work it, and it is much tighter. So I thought why not post it on FF? I have changed much regarding plotlines, and it is just better overall. It's not faberry in their usual contexts, but it's something different and still in charachter (I hope) :) I can't say how frequent updates will be. Bear in mind that I only have to re-work the story, but having said that I have already created and added in new scenes as well as taken out some, so I can't say how frequent updates will be.

She lay stone still on the mat, eyes closed. Silence – but for the metallic jangle of a few punch bags that were swaying to a standstill – surrounded her. She drew in a deliberate breath, cool air coating her nostrils and filling her sculpted trunk before leaving her lips, recycled. Her defined sternum continued to rise and fall, glistening infinite beads of hard-earned sweat as the growing silence of mind began to dwarf her awareness of her body.

The serene silence of meditation. She'd spent her entire life avoiding it, the silence. Silence had always made room for her to see the monster that she had become. But when she'd discovered fighting, she'd also discovered a whole new way to experience the silence. New motives. Motives that were much more becoming.

The silence became a route to blade-like focus. A route to success.

"When there are thousands of blood-thirsty fight fans roaring, you'll need to stay focused. When you get punched and kicked and you swing back, only to find that nobody's there, you'll need to know how to maintain that focus! Find the silence," her first ever boxing coach, Alberto Lopez, had told her whilst pressing a guided meditation CD to her palm.

At the memory of how she'd raised a cynical eyebrow at it, a smirk twitched her lips, coaxing her away from that serene inner blankness.

"You're gonna win this fight, Q. You beat the breaks off that bitch before and you're gonna do it again."

Quinn sat up on the mat, a smirk much deeper than the previous marking her features as she watched her best friend navigate the gym. She noted the white tape that was wound around Santana's wrist and in between the caramel complexion of her fingers. "You looking to do some lifts, S?"

Santana hung her duffel bag up and started towards the mats, brushing fingertips loaded with quiet reverence over the steel and leather of the apparatus. "Nah, I just got done lifting at that spot a few blocks away. Britt's working late, so I thought I'd drop by and tune your ass up in prep for the Berry war you've got coming up," she answered, a casual way about her as she shrugged. Too casual.

"Just admit that you love me and came by because you care."

Santana rolled her dark eyes off to the side, but said nothing. It was progress in Quinn's mind. She thrust her hand up and Santana grabbed it, pulling the sweaty blonde to her feet.

"You hear Berry's latest interview?" Santana asked as she began peeling the tape off of her wrists.

Quinn ran her fingers back through the strands that had broken free of her bun, and grimaced at the moisture that coated her fingers. "Wow, Evan really pushed me today."

"Bitch, you listenin'?"

"I don't really care what that noisy dwarf has to say, S. It's not gonna stop me from reconstructing her nose," Quinn said, sporting a delighted smile like the pleasure would soon be all hers.

"Bitch was on Ariel Helwani's MMA podcast. I was listening on the drive over here. He asked about your first fight with her. She said you beat her by way of a fluke."

Quinn stilled, her cocky hazel stare icing over and narrowing at nothing in particular. "I choked her unconscious after timing the _perfect_ right hook to her temple. Hardly a fluke."

Santana smirked, because if that wasn't a fired up serial-killer-esque Quinn Fabray stood in front of her, she was Michael Jackson. "And did you try to date her at one point?"

Unlike the many shots that Quinn had absorbed over the years had been able to do, that question rocked her. "W-What?"

"My my," Santana husked with sensual eyes, much to Quinn's displeasure. "I knew you thought she was hot but you asked her out, got turned down, and didn't tell me about it?" She squinted, thinking back. "In that last fight I bet you must have just loved body-triangling her from behind – constricting her lower abdomen between your legs as you cut off the oxygen supply to her brain. Though I gots to say… it's a little fucked up to be punching the shit out of someone you wanna bone, especially when you're as ferocious about it as you were when you blemished her perfect record."

"I… I." Quinn swallowed, frowning at the wall behind Santana. "I cannot believe she talked about that on Ariel's podcast. What the fuck?"

Santana waved Quinn's reaction off, dismissive. "She did it to get in your head. If she can make this second fight personal, you're more likely to rush at her aggressively, leave yourself open, and then she can crack you with something sneaky and dangerous. You know how technical her striking is – how sneaky she is about setting those kicks up."

"Fuck her. What if I hadn't been out to certain family members yet?"

Santana sighed, bored. "Really?"

"Fuck you too; I'm not so gay that it's obvious. In fact it's not obvious at all."

"That shit's all over the net, Q. You're a famous mixed martial artist – the first female fighter who's as hot as she is brutal and loved by the mainstream because of it," Santana pointed out, all but duh-ing her friend. "Everyone knows. Why wouldn't your family know you're a skirt-hound too?"

"But Rachel doesn't know that! As far as she's concerned, it could just be this ridiculous rumour that nobody brings up at family gatherings – something that I neither confirm nor deny."

An over-it scoff tumbled from Santana's lips. " _Berry_ ," she stressed, for no other reason other than to be brutish, "knows your homosexuality is a well-known fact amongst the public. She's a little bitch, but she's not gonna out you to the world thinking you weren't already out to begin with. The troll has two dads for fuck sake."

Quinn drew in a calming breath and blew it free. "Whatever, just wait 'til our staredown at the weigh-ins," she mumbled sulkily, stalking over towards the sparring pads that lay on the far mat. She snatched them up and thrust them through the air at Santana, who caught them despite the force and abruptness with which they'd been thrown. "You wanna help me prepare, S? Then put those on and let's bang."

She knew that she was being stupid. Of course Berry knew that she was out worldwide. Just last weekend she had attended a publicized pride event in New York to make a speech about the fight for equality in all walks of life. But fuck Rachel for telling the world that she'd spurned her advances. Fuck Rachel for stealing her silence.

* * *

The blinds were drawn, aiding the dark shadows that were frozen, mid-creep, across the surfaces of the hallway. "Dad? Daddy?" Rachel called, foot-nudging the front door in behind her and locking it.

She heard the familiar shuffle of slippers against carpet and smiled at the dark-skinned man that emerged from the kitchen, a mug of hot chocolate clutched in his careful clasp. She could smell it. It was the same brand that her fathers had raised her drinking, and whilst that hadn't changed over the years so many other things had.

"Who died?" she asked in reference to the barely lit hallway, but forgot about it in her rush to help steady her aging father's trembling hands. "You're okay dad. Nice and easy."

"Thanks honey," he said as he led the way into the lounge and sunk into the sofa. He granted his only daughter a trying smile that failed to reach his eyes, and the reason for the thick atmosphere suddenly became clear to Rachel.

"You and daddy do not have to worry. I've trained extensively for this upcoming bout. Quinn Fabray will not –"

"Sweetheart, after what happened last time at the hands of this… woman, your daddy and I do not want you fighting her. We're worried," Hiram admitted.

Rachel considered, and not for the first time since she'd decided to embark upon this career path, if she was perhaps being selfish. She'd given her parents something to be proud of, something to support when she was an aspiring Broadway actress. She'd had brushes with success, had dangled the safe stardom of the stage under their noses before snatching it all away from them when she'd realized that Broadway wasn't going to give her the satisfaction and fulfilment that she'd once dreamed it would. And what had she replaced it with? She'd replaced it with the ruthless fight game, which was a lottery of injuries, life-threatening risk, the highest highs, and heartache.

Rachel smiled to herself; whilst this game was ruthless, there was nothing else like it.

Her bullies had been just as ruthless. They'd been the conduit. The conduit to her obsession with yoga, and fitness, and eating clean. And fighting. It had been rough being the daughter of two gay men. Lima, Ohio had been unforgiving of anybody who dared to differ from societal expectations back then. It hadn't helped that Rachel had been a flamboyant ambitious adolescent, who'd encompassed an often misunderstood beauty, acne, a flat chest, a quirky fashion sense, and an effortless trust in her goals that eluded her directionless peers.

Predictably, they'd sought to punish her for daring to exist. From dumster-dumping, to demeaning insults, to prankster suitors, to having ice-cold treats thrown in her face, Rachel had experienced it all. But none of those things had jarred her like the day that Danielle Hamptom had punched her without provocation.

She'd spent lunch that day quivering in a bathroom stall slow-breathing away the nausea that had swelled in her stomach the moment Danielle had struck it. There she'd realized that it wasn't enough to eradicate her acne with clean eating and yoga so that the mean girls in the hallways couldn't call her crater face. There she'd realized that she needed to learn to defend herself too.

Concerned for their daughter's physical safety, and exasperated by the school's lack of enthusiasm when it came to Danielle's punishment, Hiram and Leroy Berry committed themselves to the weekly two hour drive outside of town – a rundown gym that taught an assortment of martial arts disciplines.

Over time those classes had turned Rachel into something that nobody could have ever anticipated. A popular teenager.

She'd been both the star Judoka and the star Muay Thai student, garnering the respect and envy of her peers for the first time. Class after class she'd shown a natural athleticism and feel for the human body as it related to combat. All the drive that she'd poured into dreams of headlining on Broadway met with her new found passion for combat, which set the two passions at war with one another, combat being the mistress. At least it had been in Rachel's mind, because whilst she'd loved it she hadn't – at the time – been able to foresee a viable path to stardom or riches via fighting. Women hadn't yet become a popular attraction amongst fight fans, and the sport itself had been in its infancy. Still, Rachel had loved competing – the perfect execution of technique, the learning, getting her hand raised. Her father's had still been under the impression that Broadway was the unequivocal goal, that their daughter needed applause to live.

And she had. Just not applause limited only to that of her musical, dancing, and acting talents.

When Rachel graduated high school the Broadway world swept her up after she landed the starring role in a small-time production called _Fantasy_. Her combat years lived on only in the animated stories that she'd tell her New York friends when they'd glance her trophy collection. She was a born performer, born with a voice that had needed little training, and dancing and acting skills that had needed little refinement. Role after role had sought her out, much to the jealousy of some of her so-called friends, an emotion that had been exacerbated by the fact that Rachel hadn't seemed all that fulfilled by the success that they so desperately coveted.

And she hadn't been fulfilled. Not even the Tony Award, presented to her by her childhood idol Barbra Streisand, had done it for her. She hadn't missed the irony – that she could spend so much of her early years believing that her destiny was Broadway... only to discover that it wasn't. When the Ultimate Fighting Championship began to sign female fighters for the first time, and Cassy Bliss – a woman Rachel had dismantled in a Muay Thai tournament years before – won the UFC Strawweight Championship, and became the face of women's martial arts, Rachel had known what her true calling was.

"Are you listening, sweetheart?"

She blinked her past away, granting her father a contrite but disappointed smile. "Dad, I'm going to beat her this time, and in utterly brutal fashion. My coaches and I have studied extensive tape on Fabray this fight camp. She makes small mistakes and leaves openings. Openings that I _will_ capitalize on," Rachel assured him, trusting in the hard work that she'd put in over the past two month camp. "I was a little flat-footed in our last bout. However, my footwork has improved dramatically since then, along with my range management. Fabray will be lucky if she can hit me at all, much less do what she did the last time."

"Sweetheart -"

"I'm better than her! I know that without a shadow of a doubt!"

Hiram sighed, sunk his neck down into his shoulders, and sipped his hot chocolate.

It made Rachel all the more determined.

* * *

Quinn snuggled down in bed. She dared to let her gaze fall to the empty space beside her. Her cell phone lay beside her pillow. She could visit an adult site, find a clip of two moderately attractive women having sex, get herself off, and then maybe sleep would find her. A sleeping pill would be just as effective, but who knew what unlisted ingredients lurked within those?

Popping one and potentially flagging for a banned substance post fight wasn't a risk she was willing to take. No. She didn't want Berry to have any crutches or excuses, didn't want her to be able to say that she'd gotten her ass handed to her, for a second time, because Quinn had been taking performance enhancing drugs. A PED scandal, however innocent she was, would mean that Nike would likely stop sponsoring her, and her entire body of success in mixed martial arts would come under questioning. Like the accused pedophile later proved innocent, it would follow her for the rest of her career. Her accolades would forever be tarnished with the label: cheater.

Quinn couldn't have that. Not when every skill that she'd ever acquired had been earned through hours upon hours of repetition drills, sweat, injuries, and grit.

She blindly reached beneath her pillow, feeling around for the device – when it began to vibrate! Her fingers grasped it and she thumbed the screen, taking it to her ear. "Hello?"

"Miss Fabray?"

Quinn sat up against the headboard at the unfamiliar male voice. "Who is this?"

"Jesse St. James. I apologize for making this call so late but –"

"You're Rachel Berry's manager slash agent right?"

"Yes," Jesse affirmed, the prideful puff to his chest audible. "Yes I am."

"She could have called herself to apologize for putting our past out there for world consumption! She was out of line! I assume you're calling to do her dirty work."

"Not at all."

Quinn glared into the darkness. "Then why are you in my ear?" she enunciated, patience thin.

A sigh funnelled into her ear. "I've already informed Dana White, but the chances are his busy schedule hasn't permitted him to inform you yet. So Rachel instructed that I call you myself."

Quinn tensed. "Tell me what?"

"Rachel suffered an injury whilst training. Her doctor won't clear her to fight, despite her threats to take legal action against him."

Quinn stilled, blinking repeatedly as she watched the last two month's preparation flash before her eyes. Fuck, she thought. She'd needed this fight. Craved it. It'd been three months since her last fight, and she was crawling with that fighter's itch. Hitting pads and sparring in training wasn't enough. She needed to let her fists, elbows, and kicks fly at full power under the lights and in the heat of competition. She needed to let them fly at Rachel.

It took a few moments before Quinn remembered that she was on the phone. When she settled on a response, it hit the air as cool and as seamless as those bullshit speeches she would give as Captain of her high school Celibacy Club: "You know, I was really looking forward getting my hands on her again."

"Oh I'm sure you were, Miss Fabray."

"Don't get cute, errand boy; I asked her out, she stormed off, I'm over it!" Quinn grunted, her irritation over the cancellation, despite her efforts to downplay it, seeping in. "But I'm not over her claiming her loss to me was a fluke. I've got a right hook and tape of the fight that says otherwise."

"Errand boy?" Jesse huffed. "Look, I'm going to remain professional, regardless -"

"Just tell her to rest and heal up real nice, because the next time she's stupid enough to let officials lock her in a cage with me, I'm gonna embarrass her. Take delight in her tears, just like the last time I beat her and left her crying in the middle of the octagon."

Jesse's jaw constricted and pulsed, those cold words propelling him back in time.

He recalled the far-away look that had plagued Rachel's lost chestnut eyes after Quinn had beaten her – how she'd sat in her locker room concussed, asking team members as well as him what had happened, only to receive the answer and then ask again seconds later. For all his clients in the fight business, Jesse had never seen a concussion steal a fighter's recent memory, though he'd always been aware that short term memory loss was a potential consequence.

To see his then girlfriend repeatedly receive answers, forget, and have to ask what had happened again mere moments later, had tugged the muscle in his chest, because he'd known that once Rachel's brain stopped glitching out, she'd have to deal with the devastating fact that she'd lost without the luxury of forgetting seconds later.

And she hadn't dealt with it well. They say depression has many faces, and Jesse was a subscriber to that notion. Many of his clients had spiraled into depression. Some because an injury had sidelined them and taken precious months off of their prime years as an athlete. Others because retirement meant that they had to find a new identity, a new self-concept, no longer the storied prize fighter. Certain fighters drank and snorted themselves silly. Others took their pent up frustration out on wives and kids. Then there were those who were depressed because of all the concussions they'd endured over the years, their brains forever scrambled, which often resulted in random angry outbursts, slurred speech, decreased comprehension, and irrational impulsivity.

Rachel, however, had trained herself all the way to sickness. After her loss to Quinn, she'd lived at the gym. Morning, noon, and night she'd been there, neglecting other areas of her life, including her relationship with Jesse, which had quickly torn their romance to shreds. She'd neglected sleep, rest, and her social life, obsessed with getting back on the horse so that one day she could fight Quinn again and best her. Her obsession had been impossible on her body, and more impossible on her mind. The cycle of self-abuse had only ended when she'd beaten her next opponent, Maye Donnahertz, via a round one question mark kick knockout. But she'd never truly forgiven herself for the Fabray loss.

Jesse batted his curly fawn hair away from his face with a staunch hand. "I was questioning whether to believe those recent articles about you being a ruthless bully throughout high school. But it seems they painted you true. Next time, Miss Fabray, Rachel is going to bully _you_ in the octagon. Good night."

With those parting words, Jesse left Quinn's ear.

She was alone again. Only now she was incredibly pissed off.

* * *

When she walked into the office Dana White, the UFC's President, was sat behind his desk telling whoever he was on the phone to that 'styles make fights,' and that they had to 'make it happen.'

Seconds later he hung up, smiled at her, and motioned for her to sit. "What's up, pretty lady? Make yourself comfortable."

"Thanks." She drew out the chair opposite her boss and sat down.

Quinn liked Dana. He was unlike any boss that she'd ever had before, with his no nonsense manner, his love for violence, and his habit of sometimes squeezing as much profanity as he could into a sentence. With her fight against Rachel off the table, she wondered what was next for her career in the Women's Strawweight Division. Dana would give it to her straight.

He clapped his slightly chubby hands together atop the desk's surface. "Alright! So Berry's injured. Since finding out I've been like a fuckin' mad guy tryin' to fix it."

"Fix it? Wait, I'm still fighting? I thought you were scrapping the fight altogether."

"Well, hey, lemme finish," he said on a toothy grin that suggested he knew something Quinn didn't. Her gaze narrowed with curiosity. "Someone stepped up to take the fight."

"Who?"

"You're gonna love this! How about you finally get your title shot, and you and Gertrude Fring put on a fuckin' bloodbath for the fans?"

Quinn's eyelids stuttered mid blink. "… Ex-Excuse me?"

"You're ranked number three in the division. Berry: four. Justino's ranked two, but she's suspended 'cause she popped for steroids. With you scheduled to fight Berry, and with Justino out, Fring was outta worthy contenders to challenge her title."

"Right," Quinn drawled, unable to grasp how Gertrude could be stupid enough to take a fight against her on short notice. To put her _belt_ on the line against a short notice opponent. Against _her_!

"When news hit the media about Berry being out, guess who called me? Within _minutes_!" Dana exclaimed, hyped over Gertrude's thirst… or arrogance; he still hadn't worked it out. "She said you were a top five Strawweight, and that she might as well crush any hopes you have of becoming champ now – that she would knock you out inside one round."

The air in the office charged with something prickly and thick then... preceding the dark husky chuckle that bounced around Quinn's throat. Her lips slowly rode up over pretty white teeth to facilitate a wolfish grin, her eyes a gleaming champagne story of sadistic glee. Then, soft as a smile with underlying bad intentions, she spoke: "Watch me take that belt."

Dana's brows rose as laughter shook his broad torso. "Fuck, this fight's gonna be awesome." He gradually calmed and shook his head, shrugging like there was nothing more he could've done to deter Fring's cocksure notions. "I tried to tell her you were a serious fight. Ranked number three with the heaviest right hand in the division, _and_ on a winning streak! But Fring's a savage. A fuckin' madwoman – didn't care that it's short notice or any of that. Said she just wants to get in there and fight, doesn't matter who it's against, and that's why the fans love her."

Quinn hadn't heard anything past her promise to take the Strawweight Championship.

* * *

Rachel groaned miserably, huffing when the loud expelling of emotion saw her in the same situation that she'd been in before she'd expelled it, which was injured with no Fabray rematch on the horizon.

"I can't believe any of this," she whispered, her voice made thin under the ache of unshed tears that had swelled in her throat. "I-I was so close to erasing my only loss, and then… then this happens. My parents are losing their minds because I'm hurt, and I – Fabray probably thinks I'm scared to fight her again and –"

"Hey," Noah cooed. "Chill babe." He dragged the table closer to the sofa and carefully lifted Rachel's bandaged ankle onto it. "R.I.C.E," he stated. "Rest, ice, compression, and elevation. You'll be good in no time. And, hey, if Fabray takes Fring's belt you'll probably get a fast-track title shot because there's real beef between you and Quinn, a real story. Dana and the fans dig that."

Rachel let her sight roam Noah's sculpted arms and back – the rivets of thick muscle that were his quads: barely encased in a pair of tight shorts. He was the UFC Middleweight Champion, known for throwing that lightning fast spinning back kick to the faces of those that challenged his spot at the top. It was okay for him, Rachel thought to herself, perhaps a little bitterly. He had championship gold, was on a twelve fight winning streak, _and_ all of his limbs were working in perfect order. Was he really in any position to tell her to chill, regardless of how well meaning?

He ruffled his Mohawk, glancing towards the kitchen before looking to the crestfallen woman before him. "Want me to make you something to eat?"

Rachel suddenly felt like a burden. Instead of training for his upcoming fight against Jimmy, 'Guns,' Lolacoff, Noah was here taking care of her. She granted him a tight smile that faded as soon as it had formed. "No thank you. I appreciate your willingness to be here with me, really I do. But you have an important fight coming up that requires your utmost focus."

"What, are you saying you think Lolacoff can beat me?"

"No, that is not what I said," Rachel huffed. She gave Noah the once over. "How much do you weigh right now?"

"Around... two-oh-five."

"Your fight is in two weeks!" Rachel shrieked, momentarily forgetting her own woes. "You already should've started cutting! If you keep doing weight cuts like this, your thyroids will be shot by the time you're thirty! You could damage your liver!"

Noah rolled his eyes resignedly. "Okay, I see your point. But one-eighty-five isn't gonna be _that_ tough to get down to. I'll make the weight."

"You barely made weight for your last fight. Cutting weight gets more difficult as one gets older -"

"I have this new nutritionist coming in, Rach. I'll be on weight come the official weigh-ins," Noah sighed. "Stop deflecting."

He dropped down onto the sofa beside her, sneaking his chiselled arm around her shoulders and pulling her in close as an impish smile shaped his lips. "Honestly, I'm just hanging around in the hopes that you'll tell me why you didn't dish that Fabray asked you out before. I had to hear about it on a podcast." He felt rather than heard Rachel's weak scoff.

"We're not talking about that," she petulantly murmured, looking to her lap. "I'm not done scolding you for your irresponsible mismanagement of your weight."

Noah chuckled. "My irresponsible nature is why the world loves me. Now dish. I need to know what kinda game that absolute fucking dime piece, Fabray's, got." Awe glazed his gaze over. "Man, I _still_ can't believe she's not into guys. Every time I see her it's like – instant hard-on."

Rachel leaned out of his immediate space and radiated frail amusement at him. She then sniffed away the unshed tears that had begun to fog her nose, and found it within herself to tease, "are you threatened by the fact that she propositioned me?"

"Your ego is out of control, even by Rachel Berry standards," Noah retorted dryly.

It was one of the things that he loved about her – that she never settled for anything less than the absolute best. That she knew herself to be worthy of the best. That she knew she was someone special. It was the reason why she was smarting so hard about not being able to fight Quinn again and right the one loss on her record. Noah understood that. Being an egomaniac was an essential ingredient in the fight game. But in this instance, with that question, Rachel wasn't being an egomaniac.

In this instance she was right on the money.

"I'll always adore you, Rach," he confessed, suddenly sullen.

"Noah?" Rachel uttered, feeling his arm slip away from her shoulders.

"I adore you. But don't ask me shit like if I'm threatened by the idea of you moving on. Especially not right now. You're heartbroken about the injury and you're vulnerable, and if we keep down this path reliving old relationship dynamics, we're probably gonna end up fucking only for you to regret it. I'm not what you want. I had you, I screwed up, and you figured out what I'd been saying from the start – that you deserved better than me."

"Hey –"

"Yeah, I'm threatened. I was threatened when you started dating that preppy asshole, Jesse, and I'll be threatened when you start dating someone new. But I deserve it, and I'm gonna eat it like I ate that clubbing overhand right from Darren Dawson at UFC 161."

Rachel noted the hunch to Noah's shoulders. The boyish sulkiness that had commandeered his stare. The world saw him as _the_ man. He was Noah, 'Hockey Puck,' Puckerman. Strong, quick, vicious, powerful, cocky, and possibly the best pound for pound fighter in the UFC. She wanted that guy to return.

She took her fingers to his chin and lifted it so that their eyes would connect. "I'm sorry. It was the easy thing to say and it wasn't fair. I will say that this is why I never dished about Quinn though. It happened shortly following our break-up, and it never seemed like the right time when we were rebuilding our friendship to tell you that other people were making advances towards me."

Noah nodded one time, sighing his discontent away. "So..." He shrugged, still somewhat solenm but accepting. "Tell me now."

Rachel briefly closed her eyes, and with it she closed the door on their past to open up another. "You remember that Quinn and I temporarily trained with the same camp a few years ago right?"

"The Wayne Harper camp in Alaska?"

"Yes. Well…"

_Santana and Quinn stood, arms folded, watching the petite brunette put her all into_ _squat-flipping_ _the truck tire from one end of the gym to the other_ _._

" _Wow."_

" _Yeah, she was in here working that tire before we went out to grab lunch too. Bitch has cardio for days, I'll give her that," Santana mused aloud. "Where are those ropes I left on the bench? I swear to God, if Colton put them away I'ma get up in that boy's ass."_

_Beside her Quinn said nothing. She instead twisted the cap off of her water bottle and took a quick swig, her clear hazel eyes never leaving the small brunette's grunting athletic form._

_Handing Santana the now capped bottle, Quinn removed the towel that had been hanging around her own neck and began to make her way over towards the noisy spectacle._

" _Push! Push it, Rachel! This is round five of a title fight, and you're three rounds down to one! How much do you want it? Push!" Wayne Harper, the camp's founder, yelled when the panting woman's arms limpened against the tire and her legs gave out_ _mid-squat_ _. The tire rolled to a brief unstable stop before toppling to the floor when she collapsed flat on her back, arms splayed out either side of her torso. Her chest tugged in and shoved out air as though traumatized by what she'd just put her body through._

_Wayne grinned and offered his hand for the fallen heap of a woman to take. "You've got an awesome gas tank! That's half the battle when you're in the octagon," he praised her, his narrow blue eyes gleaming like they always did when he discovered_ _an athlete_ _he thought could be_ _the champion_ _._

" _What's up Wayne? Who's this?" Quinn asked, peering down at the sweaty woman. She dragged her sight over the woman's glistening_ _clavicles, and all the way down to her small feet, which were clad in a pair of fresh blue Reebok sneakers._

" _I'm_ _..._ _Rachel," the floor bound brunette panted. Suddenly feeling scrutinized she blocked out the fatigue that screamed in every muscle and managed to sit up, dragging the back of her hand across her dripping forehead as she looked up_ _at_ _the world renowned Quinn Fabray_ _._

" _Here," Quinn said, offering her towel to the recovering woman._

_Rachel managed a smile. She took the soft bundle of material with a gentle clasp. "Thanks."_

_Wayne glanced between the two women and raised an eyebrow; he had two teenage daughters and always knew when he was intruding. "I'll leave you girls to_ _it_ _."_

_He was gone in an instant, moving off to bestow other fighters with the best kept techniques of mixed martial arts._

_Understanding all too well the hellish state of exhaustion that Rachel had worked herself into, Quinn dropped to the mat, sitting with folded legs. They stared at one another, Quinn_ _giving off_ _an intense_ _studious_ _air_ _, which caused Rachel's face to fluster more than it already was, if possible._

_As if to hide, she dabbed her_ _face_ _with the towel._

" _I'm_ _really_ _impressed with your cardio," Quinn told her. "You train with this camp before, or are you bringing in that gas tank from a previous conditioning programme?"_

" _No._ _It's_ _my first time here_ _. I_ _thought I was aware of the elite level that this camp operated at," Rachel answered_ _, heartbeat slowing as she gestured_ _at Quinn as if to demonstrate her idea of an elite fighter, "but I'm frankly astounded by the level of skill and talent that enters this room on a daily basis."_

_Quinn chuckled, mentally_ _filing away the shape of Rachel's lips for later consideration_ _. "If you made it out here then that means you're also at that elite level. What's your b_ _ackground_ _?"_

_Rachel couldn't help but smirk. "I would very much love to toss you around, or catch you with a spinning back fist, but I'm still recovering from the tire exercise." She cupped her still winded rib cage, and Quinn followed her every movement._

" _Toss?_ _So_ _you're a Judoka and a Muay Thai girl, if the spinning back fist is anything to go by."_

" _Bingo. You know your stuff, but of course you do. You're Quinn Fabray."_

_Quinn simply smiled at her. "How many professional fights have you had?"_

_Rachel flashed all ten fingers, pride elevating her chin as she said, "ten, with a perfect record. I'm also a two-time silver medallist at the World Judo Championships."_

" _It's magnetic how you come alive when you talk about this. It's contagious, not that I need to catch the f_ _ight_ _bug_ _anymore than I already_ _have it. But just, you need that passion in our sport; it's so competitive!"_

" _I've always embodied unwavering passion and determination. I was the same way when I was performing on Broadway, but –"_

_Quinn's sudden gasp_ _saw Rachel's lips meet and stay that way._

" _How could I have been such an airhead? You're that Tony Award winning actress prodigy with the amazing voice, aren't you? I don't follow theatre, but I remember something in the news about you being snapped up for all t_ _hose_ _big_ _r_ _oles straight out of high school?"_

_Never one to shy away from prestige, Rachel chuckled, lapping up the recognition. "Yes. That was me."_

" _Wow. From Broadway to cage fighting, huh? Quite a jump. I bet your parents were pleased."_

_Rachel's eyes dropped to the towel in her lap. She began to stroke at it. "My fathers are terrified that I'm going to break something, or worse. But I've been engaging in combat since early adolescence, so their concern has become an ordinary facet of our family dynamic. Needless to say though…" She sighed heavy, her fingers stilling on the towel. "They would have preferred that I remain on the stage."_

" _I'm sorry. Didn't mean to pry," Quinn gently offered. She knew all about parents and their stifling expectations. If she'd gone with what her parents had wanted, she would have been married to some guy named Larry and pregnant with her third child. The thought curdled her insides._

" _No, it's perfectly alright. With your classic beauty, I'm sure your parents would have preferred that you take up modelling instead of getting punched in the face. I've heard the many and varied reactions that parents give when their child tells them they're going to become a professional fighter. It's almost similar to coming out stories you hear."_

" _Well, my parents wanted me to be a housewife. If they'd given me even the option to model, maybe I wouldn't have gone to such extremes and become a professional mixed martial artist," Quinn said, taking on a smug smirk. Then she softened her smile. "Look at us:_ _family talk? W_ _e just skipped right past the pleasantries didn't we?"_

_Rachel, playful, side-eyed the flawless blonde. "I'm sure I'll get to punish you for bringing sore subjects up should we ever meet in the cage, Quinn."_

" _Bring it."_

" _I shall bring it. Be careful what you wish for."_

_Quinn's shoulders quaked with dark laughter. "Well, I know you're not gonna get tired in a three round fight, because your gas tank is something impeccable." She shrugged. "So I guess I'd just have to knock you out."_

_Rachel's eyes widened, a gasp hissing from her. "You would do no such thing! My extensive Muay Thai training trumps your boxing! If anybody's getting knocked out it's you!"_

" _I have both arm and leg reach over you, short stack," Quinn whispered, her voice padded with all types of sultry husk. "I'd get to you before you got to me."_

" _You think I'm not well-versed enough to use footwork to get on the inside? I may have shorter legs and arms than you but I'm more than capable of slipping punches from long rangy opponents, and getting on the inside where I can throw strikes that will land."_ _Rachel dipped her head into one good hard nod, as if to punctuate her words._

_Quinn sunk her two front teeth into her bottom lip, staring Rachel straight in the eye._

" _What?"_

" _One: you think I c_ _an't_ _keep you on the outside with my jab, or by stabbing your midsection with teap kicks every time you so much as_ _think_ _about_ _crowding_ _me? Let's_ _really test your cardio –_ _see how_ _it_ _holds up after a few of those. Two," Quinn purred, leaning in a little_ _closer to_ _the other woman, "you're actually getting riled up talking about this, aren't you?_ _You wanna fight me."_

" _I_ _don't appreciate you thinking_ _I'm an easy win_ _," Rachel snapped, folding her arms._

_Quinn chortled. "_ _I didn't say you were easy." She let that calculated statement sit between them for a while, but when Rachel's huffy demeanour remained unchanged, she followed up with: "Wow, look at you. Y_ _ou're just dying to get in the octagon with me right now and prove me wrong. It's_ _kind of…_ _adorable, Rachel."_

_Phasing out the silken texture to Quinn's voice, Rachel looked off petulantly. "Adorable," she muttered to herself, taking the word as a condescending dismissal of the very real threat that she posed inside the octagon. "You know, I have a_ _Brazilian Jujitsu_ _game too Quinn. In the event that I grow bored of toying with you on the feet, I'll take you to the canvas and dominate your body with my top pressure,_ _superior_ _positional_ _awareness_ _, and bullish strength_ _. I'd_ _have you sucking air like a vacuum, and then I'd elbow you_ _until either the ref saved you_ _or_ _I'd submitted you_ _. Whichever suited me best in the moment."_

_Quinn's eyebrow slowly arched. "I heard very little after you promised to dominate my body." She watched realization dawn on Rachel's face, the way her tan throat slowly bobbed as_ _her mind_ _revisited the_ _past_ _ten minutes_ _and inspected_ _it_ _under_ _new_ _light. Quinn pounced. "How would you feel about me t_ _aking_ _you out to dinner, Rachel? My treat. We could further explore how we'd annihilate each other in the cage. I_ _t would_ _be fun."_

_Rachel's chestnut orbs, previously hard and closed off, grew apologetic._

_"_ **Or** _," Quinn quickly amended, "I could take you to a great Jutitsu place I know? We could grapple each other instead of sharing pet and family photos over dinner if that's more you thing? It's certainly mine." She winked._

" _Quinn, I –_ _"_

_"If you're already dating someone – I mean, I guess it makes sense that somebody would've already snapped you up."_

_"No, I –_ _things are complicated._ _I'm truly flattered but..."_

_"You're not into women," Quinn supplied, tone flat with disappointment._

_"_ _I'm sure you've met my ex_ _._ _UFC Middleweight up-and-comer,_ _Noah Puckerman_ _?_ _"_

" _Wait." Quinn frowned, sure she must have been mistaken. "You dated Puck? Mohawk, tiger tattoo that starts at his chest and winds all the way down to his… nether regions Puck?"_

_Rachel rolled her eyes but nodded._

" _I never would have put you two together. So_ _he's your ex_ _but there are still feelings?"_

" _Okay, now you're prying!" Rachel_ _suddenly_ _snapped, causing Quinn to sling her palms up in plea of her innocence._

" _I was just trying to see if_ _maybe I_ _had a_ _shot_ _. I wasn't trying to pry."_

_Rachel's shoulders hiked up and_ _d_ _own_ _in a huff._ _She realized she was still holding the blonde's towel and was prompt about dropping it in Quinn's lap. "Thanks," she mumbled, standing up and walking off._

_The space between Quinn's eyebrows pinched in_ _deep_ _frown_ _. Then_ _she consciously relaxed her forehead_ _, evening her attractive features until her expression was a mask of cool indifference._ _Rejection had been bound to happen to her at some point, just as every fighter experienced their first loss_ …

Noah's eyes grew electric with realization. "Fuck! That explains why she's always bitchy with me backstage at events and shit."

"Maybe she's bitchy because you leer at her like sex is the only thing she's good for."

"Rachel, have you _seen_ her? She couldn't be more wrong! I want her to have my Pucktastic kids and to marry me! We'd raise little ass kickers. Masters of shit-kicking."

Rachel fixed him with a disenchanted look. "Sounds like the plot of a TV show that's doomed to fail, especially the part where she's – I don't know – _only_ interested in women."

"Regardless, you blew her off something harsh man. I'm not surprised she can't stand me. Probably thinks I mentally abused you or something, and that _that_ 's why you were still all messed up in your feelings when she asked you out. Gee, thanks for that Rach."

"You're most welcome. In any event, her unintentional prying annoyed me. You and I had just parted ways, and I didn't want to discuss the sore nature of my emotions with anyone, much less a stranger, whether I'd been a fan of hers or not," Rachel explained, unapologetic.

Noah nodded his understanding. "Cool. But she's just _so_ fucking hot."

"She gave me my first loss," Rachel pointed out. "Whose side are you on?"

Noah kept quiet for a while, considering his selection of responses, before just coming out with it: "Quinn's fuckin' beautiful, Rach. The kind of chick you take home to your mom. And –"

"She's insufferable!" Rachel insisted, leaving no room for argument.

This had been one of their biggest obstacles as a couple. It was Rachel's way or no way, and Noah – with his numerous tattoos, mohawk, and boyish wildness – had always seen the world through a different lens to her. As a result he'd sought comfort in the arms of groupies that had only been into him for his name, and he'd lost Rachel because of it.

"Where's your sense of sportsmanship?" he asked. "Not everything's perfect. She beat you."

A grimace crossed Rachel's face at those words.

"Congrats to her," Noah continued. "But she also turned you into the monster in the cage that you are today. Without that loss, you wouldn't have fixed those holes in your game. Quinn deserves your respect as a fighter for forcing you to evolve."

"I understand that but it's frustrating. I'm the superior fighter. I know I am. She can't possibly work as hard as I do – can't possibly want it as much as _I_ do. I was all set to prove that, and then I get injured."

"If you understand that she deserves your respect, and you know that her _prying_ was unintentional, why do you hate her so bad?"

Rachel glanced down at her taped up ankle and shook her head."I do not _hate_ her. I merely dislike her, which is strange considering the fact that she used to be my favourite female fighter."

"And why was she your favourite?" Noah sang, already knowing the answer but just wanting the admission.

"Because her classic Hollywood beauty was in stark paradox to her distinctly mean and gritty fighting style. She destroyed stereotypes about what women who looked like her were capable of, all whilst destroying her opponents."

The corners of Rachel's lips curved up slightly in a smile that she wasn't aware of as she recalled the first Fabray fight that she'd ever watched, which had been Quinn's debut fight back in a lesser known fight promotion company called Cage Fight Championships. The commentators had all but written the young pretty blonde off, claiming that after getting hit once she'd be over rebelling against her parents and all set to run off to the fashion industry, where she'd belonged all along.

"Unprofessional misogynistic brutes," Rachel grumbled to herself.

Noah held his hands up. "There. You admitted that she's beautiful. I rest my case."

Rachel scoffed. "Not once did I deny her beauty. I just – she didn't touch gloves with me at the beginning of our first bout."

"You serious? _That's_ why you want to spill her blood so bad?"

"Regardless of what had happened years before in Alaska, she should've carried herself as a professional and touched gloves with me before the bell sounded on that first round."

Noah laughed thin, staccato, and airy. "She's a prize fighter not a stockbroker, Rachel. Professionalism isn't a priority when you're about to fight someone. Come on."

"She left me standing there holding my fists out for her to bump to the witness of thousands, further cementing my initial notions regarding her dismissal of me as a worthy opponent. She doesn't respect my skillset. She didn't, and with my terrible performance I gave her no reason to reconsider that insulting perspective. That's what cuts the deepest."

Noah face-palmed, because Rachel's obliviousness had been a thorn in the side of their relationship too. "You totally shut her down when she asked you out, and if I know you well, were probably pissy with her the entire rest of the time you guys were training in Alaska," he highlighted. "She wasn't gonna touch gloves to show respect, Rachel. You obliterated her ego."

"Perhaps..."

"I think you might've let your then insecurities as a fighter cloud your judgement," Noah carefully proposed. "Before the lead-up to Fabray versus Berry two, which no the fight isn't happening now, but yeah, she said complimentary things about how sneaky and cerebral your style is in interviews. Rachel, Quinn seems like a fan of your work if anything!"

"We'll see."

It was likely that Quinn had said those things, Rachel realized. She'd been tuning out mixed martial arts media outlets for the past few years, having learned the hard way that being married to the praise was just as detrimental as being married to the criticism. MMA was a game of sharp mental focus. At least it had always been for Rachel. Without that it was possible to be the best fighter in the gym but the worst under the bright lights when surrounded by all the noise, pressure, and the fear of loss.

It was entirely possible that Quinn had said those things and Rachel had missed it. There and then, Rachel decided that she would break her MMA media fast that night and try YouTube for clips wherein Quinn had spoken her name.


	2. Chapter Two

The voices of the UFC, Mike Goldberg and Joe Rogan, stood cage-side waiting for the pieces in their ears to tell them that they'd come back from commercial break.

"Man, I'm so pumped for this next fight," Joe enthused. "See Fring shove Fabray during the stare-down at the weigh-ins yesterday? Man," he blew out on a slow mesmerized shake of the head, "it was intense. Fring was talking all kinds of shit. But Quinn was just icy as fuck, smiling at her and winking at her. She even blew a kiss at one point," he chuckled. "It was creepy as hell, but _so_ good." He shivered, excitement coaxing goosebumps out of his arms. "I'm telling you man, if Fring's not taking Fabray seriously it's gonna cost her, 'cause Fabray's all business."

"I can't really say I get too excited for the women's fights, Joe," Mike Goldberg reluctantly admitted, having been accused of misogyny in the past for his preference. "It's hard to see women bleeding and bruised up." He smoothed his tie down and looked to the tele-prompter, as well as the cameras, that were angled towards them.

"Well, you should be excited for this one. All the rest too as a matter of fact. There's some serious talent in the women's divisions," Joe countered in that non-judgmental but corrective tone that only he, it seemed, could pull off.

 _Going live in three, two, one_ , the pieces in both men's' ears announced…

As the overhead lights powered on, and the men stationed behind the cameras began to record, Mike Goldberg held his microphone up to his lips and prepared his throat to deliver the charismatic commentary that he was known for. "Welcome back to UFC 175: Fring versus Fabray. Coming up next is the main event. The UFC Strawweight Championship bout!" He looked to his partner. "Well, Joe, it's been a night packed full of exciting knockouts. The question on everybody's lips is will we see another one? Give us your opinion on how you think tonight's main event will go?"

Joe Rogan took his microphone to his mouth. "Well firstly, Fabray wasn't even supposed to be fighting Fring tonight. She was supposed to fight Rachel Berry in a rematch, but Berry sustained an ankle injury during camp."

"Do you think the last minute change in opponent will have any impact on how she'll perform tonight?" Mike asked.

"Possibly." Joe nodded. "But how much really? She's gone from preparing to fight Berry, who has unparalleled conditioning, speed, great wrestling, Judo and Muay Thai, to having to prepare for an opponent like Fring, who – much like Fabray – has one-punch knockout power. Fring has fight ending power in both hands too. She's a black belt in Brazilian Jujitsu and has a scrappy style. At the same time we have to consider that Fring's sitting at the top of the mountain. The top ten Strawweights know her strengths and weaknesses well because she's the champion. The woman to beat. So it may not have been that difficult for Fabray and her coaches to switch out the Berry game plan for a game plan that caters to Fring."

"So if Fabray finds that Fring hits a little too hard on the feet and decides to take the fight to the ground, she'll be in a world of trouble there also?" Mike suggested, looking to the camera and then Joe.

"Because Fabray often knocks her opponents out, we don't get to see her ground game a lot. So people forget that she's a brown belt in Brazilian Jujitsu. She knows her stuff too. It's just that Fring is an elite black belt in that area, and has some nasty submissions in her arsenal. Because of that I don't think it would be a good idea for Fabray to take Fring to the ground."

"So, the path to victory for the challenger Joe?"

"If Fabray wants to win tonight, she's gotta keep it standing. She's gotta use her timing, speed, angles, and footwork to avoid those heavy power shots that Fring throws in the opening rounds, and she needs to land some big shots of her own – maybe land some blows to the body to sap Fring's cardio and slow her down. Or maybe use her footwork to make Fring burn energy chasing her around the octagon. If she can slow Fring down it'll be easier to land that hellacious right hook that put Berry down in their first fight."

"All title fights are five rounds, each round lasting the duration of five minutes," Mike pointed out. "How do you see that impacting Fring, especially with how muscular she is? We've seen her slow down in both the second and third round of fights in the past, but nobody's been able to capitalize on that yet because by the time she tires they're already withered from the punishment that she's inflicted on them."

"Yeah, that's a great point Mike. A lot of people see muscular athletes and assume that they're gonna have the advantage. But that's not necessarily true. Muscle is heavier than fat, and when you're carrying around all that muscle it's more difficult to get oxygen to all of them, resulting in faster fatigue." Joe shook his head gravely, adding, "Fring _cannot_ slow down with someone like Fabray. If she does Fabray will sense it and turn up both the volume and the aggression of her strikes."

"Any final predictions, Joe?"

"Hmmm." Joe screwed his mouth up at the question, his expertise convincing him that the fight could go either way. "Either woman can win. But I think we might just see a new champion crowned tonight. Fabray's looked spectacular in her last six fights, looked cold as ice at the weigh-ins yesterday, is super technical when she needs to be, and has nothing to lose. All the pressure is on Fring to retain the belt after going after this fight in the disrespectful way that she did. Not only that but Fring doesn't appear to be taking Fabray seriously. It could be a ruse to try to get Fabray to doubt herself, but I don't think it is. Others have sneered at Fabray's power. They all hit the canvas and woke up confused."

"Alright!" Mike chirped enthusiastically, looking directly into the camera. "Grab your popcorn, fight fans. It's the battle of the f's. Fring versus Fabray for the Women's UFC Strawweight Championship!"

Backstage in the eighteen thousand seat sold-out arena, Quinn was in her locker room sat on a yoga mat in lotus position. Her nostrils gently pulled in air, her lungs holding the breath before expelling it to the sound of the soft indie rock that pulsed in her earbuds.

It was all fading away. The pressure that she was putting on herself to go out and cement her legacy. The pressure that others were placing upon her. The fact that this was for the championship. Even the excitement. She had to be neutral, the eye of the storm. It was all pouring away like sand in an hourglass.

All but one thing.

She'd received a text message from an unknown number an hour ago whilst she'd been shadow boxing. A message that had contained an unexpected: _It's Rachel Berry. Irrespective of all the things we've said about one another recently, I'd like to congratulate you on getting your title shot. I say that as a longtime fan who respects the legacy you've built. But make no mistake, as a fighter, I will be watching closely. Don't let Fring break your face. I want to be the one to do that ;)_

Quinn hadn't been sure how to take the unlikely message. She still wasn't. That last line – there was something vaguely flirtatious about it. Or maybe that reasoning was just Quinn's undeniable attraction to the annoying brunette thinking for her. Most probable: Rachel was just reminding her that whilst she might currently be out of action, she was still studying up and had her head firmly in the game. Or maybe Rachel had intended to try to knock her focus before her fight tonight with the partway complimentary text. If that was the case, Quinn theorized, then Rachel had made an error in assuming that everybody was as mentally fallible as herself.

Quinn? She was ice. She was empty.

She was ready.

Santana poked her head around the door just then, the hard snap of her fingers lifting Quinn's eyelids to reveal eerily clear hazel eyes, devoid of all their natural warmth. "Q, that's your music. We _gots_ this!" she insisted, game face on.

Quinn stood in one fluid motion and assumed her fight stance. The orthodox stance, which saw her left hand and leg lead in front and her power right hand and foot at the rear. She threw a slow left jab followed by a rapid overhead right hook, and then threw the combination again and again, playing with the timing and speed on each shot like a chef sharpening his knives. Then she threw a swift double left jab and relaxed, shaking her arms out and rolling her neck side to side.

Santana grinned, because fighting was such a fucking beautiful thing. "Evan, Britt, and the rest of the guys are waiting at the curtain for your walkout. Let's go jack this bitch up!"

"Let's," Quinn responded, tugging out her florescent pink earbuds and batting off her hoody's hood to reveal neatly woven blonde cornrows.

* * *

Rachel sat up in bed, a glass of wine in hand. She grabbed the remote control from where it was wrapped up in the sheets and pointed it at the large flat screen television that hung on the opposite wall, cranking up the volume on the home theatre system. The voices of the octagon, Joe Rogan and Mike Goldberg, entered her artsy minimalist bedroom, spouting interesting statistics about Quinn's MMA prowess as her music blared in the lively arena.

Rachel took the opportunity to use the lull in the broadcast to consider how Quinn had likely taken her text message. She'd probably been confused, Rachel mused, which was understandable. They'd spent two months trashing one another in interviews and tweeting disparaging remarks to each other with the expectation that they'd get to settle it in the cage. But after Rachel had ventured onto YouTube and heard the almost reverent manner with which Quinn had analyzed her technique, the notion that the blonde had lacked respect for her craft had been dispelled, and with it a large portion of the hostility that she harbored towards her.

Were they ever going to be best friends? No. When she'd browsed YouTube she'd also stumbled upon some recent interviews, wherein the blonde had called her a petulant cry baby before scoffing at the idea that her victory over Rachel had been a fluke – even going as far as to ask the interviewer if he was willing to put his professional reputation on the line and agree with Rachel, which he'd met with guilty silence, to which Quinn had arched a knowing eyebrow and issued a dry, "exactly."

Hearing those things only gave oxygen to the technical clinic of strikes that Rachel intended to put on Quinn in their next fight. She disliked the woman. They weren't going to be friends. But she respected and was grateful for Quinn's journey in MMA. It had paved the way for women's MMA to flourish before the mainstream media's eyes, bringing shine to other female fighters and consequently bigger paydays. To see Quinn reach this point in her career was satisfying for Rachel as a longtime fan of the blonde's work. For all of that, Rachel had felt the almost reverent text necessary. But just as she'd typed, none of that meant that she wasn't going to try to rip Quinn's legacy from her the next time they fought.

When her gaze glided back to the television, she watched Quinn finally breach the curtain and begin her walk to the cage, the likes of Santana Lopez, Evan Hu, Brittany Pierce, and lesser known members of California's Sun Blast Gym, following a few steps behind her. Audience members flanked either side of the walkout aisle screamed and reached for their favorite female fighter, some lucky enough to have their fingertips whisper against her shoulder or her hair before she breezed past them.

She watched Quinn carefully, wondering what she was thinking and feeling as she reached the numerous officials stood cage side, shed her sponsored hoody and sneakers, and handed them to her Head Coach, Evan Hu, who slotted the blonde's florescent pink mouth guard into her waiting mouth. Rachel had watched Quinn make this walk many times over the years, watched the referee pat her down and smooth the precautionary Vaseline over her brows, cheekbones, and nose before giving her the green light to climb those three steps that led into the cage. This time was no different. As always Quinn seemed intense but vacant when she stepped into the octagon, like she wasn't inside the deafening arena – tuned out of the chaos and tuned into some intangible flow-state of being.

But Fring, who was shadow boxing on the opposite side of the cage whilst waiting for Quinn's music to cease and the fight to commence, looked composed too, Rachel noted.

She couldn't help thinking it should have been _her_ in there with Fabray tonight instead of Fring. That knowledge burned the Muay Thai specialist like she wasn't capable of articulating. But this was the fight business. These things happened. She'd get her shot, and when she did she was going to make it count!

The television picture glitched and pixelated suddenly, the audio choppy.

"Now is not the time!" Rachel complained, switching channels three times before returning to the UFC broadcast. The blotching lessened until it was no longer an issue. "I should think so," she grumbled, not all that concerned that she'd missed the ring announcer, Bruce Buffer's, introduction of both combatants. She already knew their professional records, the weight that they'd weighed in at, their home towns, and their base disciplines. She knew that information by heart, and not just Fring's or Fabray's, but multiple other top ten Strawweight competitors too. Rachel wasn't anything if not a student of the game.

Bruce Buffer left the cage and the referee walked to its center, beckoning both fighters over to him. Once they'd met him in the middle he began to explain the rules: "Protect yourself at all times. Obey my instructions at all times. Do either of you have any questions?"

Flexing her hands inside of her fingerless pink gloves Quinn shook her head, as did Gertrude, the champion's serious blue stare never leaving the blonde's.

"Okay. Touch gloves if you want to. If not, then please go back to your respective corners and wait for the signal," the ref instructed.

Without hesitation, Quinn extended both of her gloved fists out and bumped Fring's, which had already been there waiting. An act that saw Rachel frown in the dim light of her room.

All of the heat that Fring had talked about Quinn in the short lead-up to this fight, and they were touching gloves? Fring had shoved Quinn yesterday, and they were touching gloves? Perhaps Quinn had done it to show that Fring's attempt at mental warfare had not affected her, Rachel supposed, not allowing herself to fall back into the errant belief that Quinn had refused to touch gloves with her because she'd thought nothing of her as a respectable opponent. Sometimes fighters talked lots of crap in the lead-up to a fight merely to gain fan interest and get more pay-per-view buys, deep down respecting and liking their opponents. Maybe Quinn thought that of Fring's pre-fight hostility. But that seemed unlikely with Fring, who was known for her brawn rather than her smarts… which had worked out for her thus far. She was the champion after all.

But for how much longer?

* * *

As both fighters quickly retreated back to their respective ends of the cage and steeled themselves for battle, the crowed brought deafening cheers. Quinn winked across the octagon at the woman who was standing between her and the UFC Strawweight Championship, tonight's game plan clear in her mind. She was going to repeatedly tag the inside of Fring's lower leg with kicks, weakening her base over time so that she wouldn't be able to move as fast or spring into those big power shots that she liked to wing. And once Fring was breathing heavy, Quinn was going to pick her apart from the outside with long strikes, only stepping into the pocket with Fring to land her deadly right hook if she saw an opening for it.

"Fight!" the referee yelled, stepping back and out of the way.

Quinn shot straight forward into kicking range, claiming the center of the cage before Fring could. _Victory number one_ , she thought. With her hands up to guard any strikes that may come at her, Quinn blasted Gertrude's calf with a splintering kick, which caused the foot that belonged to the offended limb to fly out to the side before quickly restabilizing.

In response Fring began to side-step around the cage, circling to Quinn's left away from Quinn's power right hook so that she could get some blood flowing to her stinging calf. Quinn stayed after her, coming forward just enough but staying in kicking range as she threw a few feints with her hands to see what the stocky woman's reaction would be.

Out of nowhere a fast overhand right whooshed past Quinn's left ear, making the air hiss. Her speedy reflexes meant that she'd been able to bob her head out of its path, but what about the next time? She knew she had to punish Fring for the wild punch and deter her from attempting to throw more. So, moving laterally, she maintained her range and waited for Fring to throw it again… which she inevitably would.

It soared at her again off of a cutting left cross that clipped Quinn's jaw hard enough to turn her head. But the blonde angled off to the side in time to slip the looping overhand missile and pump a sobering one-two combination into Fring's face, which snapped the champion's head back – pretty raven strands exploding out of their once neat bun.

"I thought you were gonna knock me out inside one round?" Quinn taunted as she snapped another needling low kick into Fring's calf.

This time Gertrude's foot didn't miss a step, but the calf was now marred with an ugly red welt. The champion pushed out a frustrated breath before determination colored her face.

"She keeps throwing those kicks! Catch one and put her on her back!" one of her corner men shouted into the cage. Gertrude nodded and plodded forward with her hands up, feeling Quinn back up a little.

"Why you backing up, MMA Barbie? Let's both stand in the pocket and see who's still standing once the punches land," Gertrude goaded, smirking and edging forward. She stabbed her fist into Quinn's rib with a downward straight punch, tugging a pained grunt from her.

"We need more output!" Evan yelled into the cage from Quinn's corner. "Make her pay for coming forward! Double up on the jab and mix up your hand strikes because she's gonna look to take you down off a kick."

Hearing that advice, Quinn backed up further and shook her fists out. Bouncing from foot to foot, she kept her stance light so that she could spring in and out and laterally as she needed to. She reset position, graceful in her movements before blitzing forward with no wind-up and landing a clubbing elbow to Fring's temple. But Fring was unfazed, eating it in order to throw a hard uppercut now that the blonde was in close range. The impossible impact snapped Quinn's head up, radiating throughout her entire skull and seeding the onset of a headache.

Fring pounced. With farmer's strength, she quickly linked the fingers to both her hands behind Quinn's neck, squeezing the blonde's head between her forearms to clinch her and maintain control of her posture, before blasting a knee up into Quinn's rib. But Quinn ate it. She ate it without complaint and sent a hard knee of her own into Fring's gut, later digging a barrage of nasty hook punches into Fring's body. Feeling Gertrude's grip weaken after those shots, she took the opportunity to drive the champion back into the cage and deliver another slicing elbow to her pale temple.

"Nice!" Santana hollered from outside the octagon, watching fresh blood race down Gertrude's face and drip to the canvas.

"Now push off of her and get back to the center of the cage! She's gonna slow after eating all those body shots!" Evan suggested, exclaiming: "great. Nice work!" when Quinn did as asked.

Still edging forward, Fring touched her slick temple and glanced her fingers to see that they were coated in her own blood. A sadistic smile turned her lips up at the corners; she licked the blood and smeared it across her forehead, making a show of the barbaric act, which saw the crowd rise up.

Quinn kept her focus. Theatrics were just that. She sprang in and dug another hook to Fring's body, marveling at the forceful expelling of breath that left the champion, before springing back out to kicking range and slamming her shin into the inside of Fring's calf for the third time.

It only spurred Fring on.

Quinn smirked over the top of her gloves. She'd expected nothing less.

Fring suddenly switched her stance from orthodox to a southpaw stance, her right hand and foot now leading, her left limbs at the rear, which opened up the left side of her body to Quinn's kicks. It was an invitation, Quinn quickly realized. Fring was encouraging her to throw a right kick into the left side of her torso, so that she could catch it and attempt to take Quinn down.

 _As if_ , Quinn mused. She faked a low kick and switched her hips at the last minute, launching the other leg high at Fring's head and missing by millimeters.

"Come on, do better than that!" Fring goaded, tapping her left rib and stepping heavy into a jab that exploded into Quinn's nose before the blonde could read the tell. "Let those beautiful legs go, Barbie."

Quinn decided, there and then, that that was the last time that Gertrude Fring was ever going to call her Barbie. She wanted her to throw kicks? Well Quinn would, but not without setting them up with her hands first so that Fring couldn't see them coming.

She blitzed into boxing range – barely bobbing her head out of the way of Fring's left cross – and unfurled a surgical barrage of punches to Fring's face, ending the beautiful combination with a thunderous side kick to the left side of Fring's trunk, who momentarily tensed from crown to foot.

"That hurt her!" Brittany roared, rising up at the same time as the crowd. "She couldn't hide that! That hurt her!"

"Clinch up with her and recover!" came an impassioned cry from Fring's corner.

But Gertrude didn't listen, couldn't hear much of anything over the sound of her own shallow pants. She was in trouble. She'd taken countless power shots to the body, was losing blood, and was losing the pep in her step as the seconds ticked by. As much as she loathed to admit it to herself, Quinn was getting the better of her on the feet. So why not take the fight to the ground where there was no question of her own superiority?

She threw a lazy cross that lacked pop, stepping out of the way when Quinn attempted to answer with a crisp low kick. Fring threw another lazy but testing punch, studying the blonde's reactions so that she could go about setting up an effective takedown. She put out a few more measuring jabs, Quinn parrying the slow shots with ease. But that was alright. She hadn't thrown them with the intention of landing them. She was programming Quinn to think that her hands were the only thing that she needed to worry about, lulling her into a false sense of security.

Angling off, Fring fired a double jab that peppered Quinn's nose, and when Quinn blasted off a hand combination in return Fring changed levels – ducked beneath Quinn's rapid fists, crammed her shoulder into the blonde's belly, and drove forward on a double leg takedown attempt that tested Quinn's balance, but ultimately failed. Fring kept driving anyway, not letting up until Quinn's back met hard with the cage. Dropping to one knee for leverage, she drove her shoulder further into Quinn's belly and tried to link her hands around the blonde's hips so that she could pick her up and slam her to the canvas, but Quinn had already snaked an arm underneath one of Fring's armpits, using the underhook to swing Fring to the side and move away from the cage. Back to the center of the cage, where she could better control range.

Breathing heavy, Fring slowly got to her feet, sighing as she watched her opponent bounce around the cage like she could go for ten more rounds.

"You've worked your ass off to be the champ! Now work!" her corner demanded, their claps ringing out. "Let's go!"

Taking another labored breath Fring tucked her chin tight to her chest and put her fists up, lifting her foot off the ground when Quinn's hips merely twitched like she was going to throw another leg kick. But ultimately didn't.

Quinn chuckled at the fact that Fring didn't want to absorb any more of her kicks. She could almost feel that belt around her waist, taste the victory. The roar of the fans when Bruce Buffer drawled, "and _new_ UFC Women's Strawweight Champion: Quinn, 'The Ice Queen,' Fabray!"

She noticed that fatigue had Fring holding her fists lower than she should've been, so she sprung in to fire a Muay Thai style step-in elbow, followed by a right cross. And she would have landed those shots had Fring not angled off and drove home a deliberate hook to her temple. A deliberate hook that knocked Quinn's head straight into the trajectory of that missile-like overhand right.

The sheer force threw Quinn's head back, her backtracking legs unsteady beneath her as her vision swam like a Van Goh painting. She felt the vibration, the urgent stomps that were thudding towards her. Cutting through the blurry seams of her vision, she watched an elbow come at her and felt it crash into her cheekbone. She collapsed awkwardly to the canvas, resembling a boneless sack of skin. Fring immediately positioned herself on her knees between the struggling blonde's legs, holding her down like a cement wall as she reigned down calculated but devastating elbows that bounced the back of Quinn's head off the canvas. She reached a hand up and covered Quinn's nose and mouth, stifling her ability to breathe before throwing her weight into four or five wild punches to the blonde's ribs.

"Pull her head in tight to your chest to control her posture, Quinn! Hold her there and use the time to recover!" Quinn vaguely heard, not quite sure what was happening, and not all that certain of where she was. There were bright lights and roars so loud it reminded her of water hitting a bathtub as it jetted from a showerhead. Oh – _and_ there were sharp elbows bludgeoning her forehead.

Another collided with her face, sparking a dizzying bolt of pain along her brow bone.

"She's out! Stop the fight!" Fring told the ref, not knowing what more she could do at this point.

He shook his head. "Nope. She's still scrambling and attempting to defend herself."

"Barely," Fring argued, glancing up at him but nailing Quinn again.

"Keep working," he instructed, cavalier.

 _Oh, I'm in a fight_ , Quinn concluded in the midst of a goofy grin, _and I just got my shit rocked_!

On top of her, Fring wound another elbow all the way back, getting ready to catapult it down in what might have been the final blow of the fight. But in the moment before what would've been the point of impact, Quinn positioned both her feet on Fring's pressuring hip bones and tried to push her away with everything she had.

It didn't work of course. Her legs were pure jelly and Fring was now the fresher stronger fighter. It didn't have to work though. Quinn just needed a small opening. So she played possum for a few more seconds, pulling down on the back of Gertrude's neck and forcing her head into her own chest so that Fring couldn't straighten her back and throw full power shots anymore. She felt the champion's weight shift slightly – and that's when she struck, driving her feet at Fring's hips again. She used Fring's brief disorientation to post a palm to the canvas, scoot her legs out from beneath the other woman's body, and stagger back up to a vertical position, stumbling back into the cage as she did so.

Putting her swaying fists up, Quinn precariously bounce-stepped sideways around the cage away from Fring, hoping to buy enough time to shake the fog in her head and get the blood flowing to the worst case of sphagetti legs she'd ever encountered inside of the octagon.

Fring, back to her feet to stalk her prey, grinned sinisterly over her gloves.

Quinn let her lips go around a grin of her own.

The crowd raised up at the dramatics of it all, swelling to new heights of noise.

"Set up another takedown. She can't hang with you on the ground!" Fring's corner instructed.

The champion, sure that Quinn was still on queer street, went to shoot in for a sloppy takedown that Quinn – who wasn't as out of it as Fring had thought – saw coming. It almost happened in slow motion – Fring's level change; giving Quinn time to launch all her weight into a mostly reflexive flying knee, which cracked Fring square in the face as she was driving down. The high impact collision, made worse by Fring's own forward momentum, saw the champion's entire body lose rigidity before it thudded the canvas like a slow falling forest tree.

The referee skidded to a stop in front of the fighter left standing, pressing a preventative hand to Quinn's chest as he sliced the knife of the other across his throat to signal that the fight was done.

The fight was _done_.

It was over!

Spent and still a little wobbly, Quinn dropped to her knees, pressing both palms to the canvas as her trunk rolled with every labored breath. She leaned down and kissed the bloodstained canvas in an emotional showing of reverence, the fans going nuts around her. She had finally, after all those years of grinding, become the UFC Strawweight Champion!

"Bitch, you fucking did it!" she heard an approaching Santana squeal.

She looked up to see all the people that had brought her to this stage of her career funneling into the octagon – a blur of smiles, grins, emotional embraces, and child-like elation. A teary smile graced Quinn's face, because they'd put in just as much work as she had and she'd pulled off this win just as much for them as she had for herself.

She watched Emergency Technicians race over to the fallen heap that was Fring and her somber team members. The sight struck her something surreal. She'd always known she could knock Gertrude Fring out. But to've executed it as cleanly as she had, with the championship on the line, in the first round, after getting rocked and almost finished, in front of eighteen thousand screaming fans? Not even her wildest dreams were this perfect.

Strong hands, belonging to her Head Coach Evan, grabbed her and pulled her to her feet, which were sturdier now. She flung her arms around him and he squeezed her like a proud father. "This was for all the people who said you couldn't do this. Your parents, sexist assholes, and those crazy betting lines. I love you," he said, brushing soft a kiss to her bruised and sweaty temple before letting her go so that other team members could maul her with their affection.

Before Quinn knew it she was mid-air, perched on the shoulders of Brittany and Santana, who were parading her around the cage like a trophy. She supposed she was, she mused with a wide grin.

Gertrude was now conscious and seated on a stool in the cage, her head hung as the cut man tried to tend to her wound. Her team members shook the hands of Quinn's coaches and issued several solemn but professional congratulations.

After a few minutes Santana and Brittany put Quinn down, and Dana White entered the cage in his usual crisp suit. Clutched in his left hand was the belt. The UFC Strawweight belt, which seemed to gleam a richer gold than it ever had before.

Bruce Buffer stepped into the octagon behind the UFC President, equipped with a microphone. He positioned himself just behind the referee, who was stood in the middle of the cage between a grinning Quinn and a crestfallen Fring.

"Referee John McCarthy has called a stop to this fight at three minutes and fifty-five seconds of the **very** **first** **round** , courtesy of a knockout via flying knee for the winner!" Bruce paused for affect. "And _new_!" he roared in emphasis, "UFC Women's Strawweight Champion: Quinn, 'The Ice Queen,' Fabray!"

Quinn sighed blissfully at the sound of that, her eyelids softly falling shut.

She lifted them only when she felt Dana wrap the belt around her waist from behind and latch it. "Amazing fight!" he praised her, grinning from ear to ear like any fight promoter in his position would. Then he winced and said, "that flying knee was fuckin' _insane_! Man, it was nasty! Wouldn't wanna be Fring in the morning." He chuckled and shrugged a shoulder. "I did try to tell her. Anyway congratulations, champ. You've earned it."

"Thank you," Quinn said softly, looking down at the gold that sat around her waist. It was heavier than she'd expected it to be, but it was the good kind. The kind of weight that would keep her grounded and mindful of all the things it had taken to get here. The kind of weight that she didn't mind.

Dana tapped her belt in one final _props-to-you_ , and then left the cage.

Joe Rogan quickly took Dana's spot beside her, holding a microphone to his lips. "Wow," he awed. "Wow. That was a _spectacular_ finish! One of the nastiest finishes we've ever seen in the Strawweight division. But the fight – the fight itself was extremely entertaining and competitive. Moments before that, Fring landed a tremendous overhand right. Can you talk us through how badly you were hurt, and what was going through your head?" He held the microphone out to the new champion.

"Firstly, I'd like to thank my team," Quinn said, gesturing to the grinning group of oddballs that she so adored. "They push me every day, encourage me, and believe in me. This win was for them. I'd like to thank Alberto Lopez, my first ever boxing coach," she added, winking at Santana, who winked back. "If it hadn't been for him, I never would've gotten into mixed martial arts. I just…" she trailed off, overwhelmed with happiness and not knowing what else to say.

She blinked herself out of her feelings, suddenly remembering the question that Joe had asked. "But, yeah, how badly did that overhand hurt me? Well, she dropped me. The only woman ever to drop me and almost finish me. It was like getting hit by a truck. I had no idea what was going on for a while there. Now I can tell people I've visited Queer Street" she laughed.

The crowd erupted with laughter, those that followed her life outside of the cage grasping the inside joke.

Joe grinned at her, her elation contagious. "It's interesting that you say you had no idea what was going on, because when you hit the canvas and she was in your guard, you were trying to scramble and minimize the damage from the elbows she was throwing from the top. Was that just your inner fighter on autopilot?"

Quinn nodded merrily. "Must have been. I'll have to watch the tape back. I had no idea what the hell was going on. She has freakish power." She touched her brow, surprised that there was no blood on her fingers when she drew them back. "I can't believe I'm not cut – another octagon experience I've yet to cross off the list."

"Think yourself lucky. Now, I wanted to ask you: what was the strategy coming into this fight?"

Quinn shrugged, humility flustering her cheeks. "I worked with great MMA minds to formulate a simple game plan. We wanted to slow her down because she doesn't have the best cardio. I knew that if I could do that whilst staying away from her power shots, I'd be able to pick her apart and maybe land my right hook to finish the fight. Turns out my recent Muay Thai training was the winning lottery ticket instead; my flying knee."

"It certainly was the winning lottery ticket," Joe readily agreed. "Is there anybody that you have your eye on for your next fight?"

"Sure," Quinn responded, her expression growing serious as she took the microphone from Joe. She looked directly into the camera. "Rachel Berry, you're not the only one who's got Muay Thai around here. Quit pretending you're hurt and let's set a date! I'm gonna break _your_ face." She winked and tossed the microphone back to Joe, who caught it with an amused chortle.

"Alright, well congratulations on winning the championship tonight Quinn. We hope to see you in the octagon again soon." Joe bent into a quick bow, a habit from his own past martial arts training. He then stepped aside so that Quinn and her team could further celebrate in the middle of the cage.

At home, sat in bed, Rachel bobbed a determined nod towards the television screen. "Bring it."


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there are typos I apologize. It is very late here.

Chapter Three

Rachel wasn't stupid. When Quinn had mentioned her recent Muay Thai training in the post-fight interview after beating Fring, she'd noted it. They both lived and trained out of California – had shared Los Angeles for two years now – and they both only sought out the best training facilities. Those inclined to know knew that the best Muay Thai coach on the West Coast was Angel Mack.

He was a man who'd come under much criticism over the years, those that had been trained in conventional Muay Thai techniques sneering at his unique and unorthodox approach to the discipline. Concerned with preserving their beloved Muay Thai's romance they'd sought to shut down his gym, declaring his teachings unsafe. They'd been closed off and unwilling to evolve with the art – their self-appointed expertise the very thing responsible for their limitations, and their subsequent failures. Angel had the last laugh.

He was an innovative, deeply knowledgeable, creative mind where combat was concerned. Rachel had known that he was the real deal, something special, right away. He'd been passionate, intelligent, and eloquent in his breakdowns of unorthodox technique, wowing her at every turn and opening new doors in the hallways of her understanding.

He was also Rachel's main Muay Thai coach – had been for four years, and if she discovered that he'd been working with Quinn, all hell was going to break loose.

"Yes!" she told her cell phone. "Now do you think you could get me that information?"

"Wait, are you parked out front the gym?"

Rachel huffed, annoyed that she'd been spotted. There was a reason why she was a professional fighter and not a spy. And sunglasses? Really? It wasn't even that sunny out; they weren't believable. She tore them from the bridge of her nose and tossed them to the passenger seat.

"Uh... Rachel, you there?"

Perhaps it was time to shoot straight. "Mike, I need you to tell me whether Angel's been training Quinn Fabray or not."

"What?" Mike chuckled.

"You heard what I said perfectly well."

"I don't know if he has or not," he said in a tone so even that, to Rachel, it seemed suspect. "Remember, I'm only here once a week now since I got custody of my son," Mike added.

Rachel softened. "Of course. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Just…"

"What?"

"I know you can't really train at the moment because of your ankle, so you're probably bored out of your mind and crawling the walls. But you gotta stop letting this obsession with Quinn run your life like this."

Feathers all the way ruffled, Rachel frowned, her lips snapping open to protest. But Mike kept talking. "You can't expect Angel not to work with fighters just 'cause you don't want him to. This is how he puts food on the table."

"There's plenty of food on his table!" Rachel shot right back. "Enough food for him to turn Quinn away!"

That was true. Angel lived an extremely comfortable lifestyle, fighters from all over paying him inordinate amounts of money to learn his expertise. But that wasn't the point, Mike concluded. The point was, "he's his own man, Rachel. He's gonna do what he sees fit."

"He's not just my coach. He's my friend!" she stressed. "The flying knee she knocked Fring out with looked like it came straight out of an Angel Mack instructional – and F.Y.I, I'm not obsessed with Quinn Fabray!" Rachel paused to take in a calming breath, and when she spoke again the previous firmness to her voice had diminished, hurt replacing it. "Bear in mind that Quinn was preparing for me up until I got hurt. If Angel worked with her, he did so in full knowledge of the fact that it was me she would be fighting. That doesn't sit well with me at all!"

Mike sighed into her ear. "Friend or no friend, he's a consummate professional. Neutral. It's not like he's a member of the gym you and Puck and them train at. This place is his gym. You're just one of many fighters to drop by."

"Maybe so, but I don't like the sneaky nature of it all. If Angel has been working with Quinn, not once have I run into her, which would mean that he's been penciling her in when I'm not booked to come in."

"Yeah, 'cause you two were scheduled to fight each other," Mike took up for his mentor. "Angel always books sessions like that. He's hardly gonna have you and Quinn train in the same room before you fight. You'd both know what the other was working on as well as each other's weaknesses. The booking system is the way it is to maintain fighter confidentiality. Yours included. Nothing to do with sneakiness."

This time Rachel was the one to sigh, and at length. "Quinn knows he's my main Muay Thai coach. Yes, Angel's the best. But it also feels like she did this to mess with me."

"If she did it's working."

"I was an actress; neurosis is par for the course."

Mike laughed. Where he came from they didn't call it neurosis. They called it mental weakness, which Rachel had displayed before when it came to Quinn. The first time they met in the cage she'd fought with too much respect, failing to pull the trigger and own the octagon the way that she was capable of. Starstruck was how Mike would describe it. She'd fought like a fan, like someone who hadn't belonged in there with her idol. And maybe she knew that. Maybe that was why she was so adamant that the loss had been a fluke.

But he sure as hell wasn't about to voice any of that.

"I just would have liked some transparency," Rachel grumbled. "He knows how I feel about her."

"You're talking like it's a foregone conclusion. Like Angel's been meeting up with her to tell all your secrets. If you really want the truth just ask him, instead of camping out front hoping to catch a glimpse of Fabray coming in or walking out." He laughed softly then. "God, if she knew about this she'd never stop zinging you. I can already see the _Single White Female_ memes plastered all over social media."

Rachel begrudgingly let a chortle of her own go. "I've taken her punches. A couple of zings and a few memes are nothing."

"Fair point."

"I've also been subject to the precocious manner in which she pursues her attractions. I must say: I'm fonder of her punches."

" _What_? I don't believe that for a second. Some small part of you must love knowing she finds you desirable. Admit it," Mike urged, playful suspicion coloring his voice.

Rachel rolled her eyes, though she couldn't completely supress her smile.

"Oh, you're just not gonna say anything? I'll take your silence as an admission then."

"Okay, so she's impossibly stunning," Rachel quickly said.

"Not what I asked."

"She's not my type."

"What is? Jesse?" Mike quipped, unimpressed.

"Hey, leave Jesse alone," Rachel lightly scolded. "He's an incredibly sweet guy once you get to know him."

"I'll take your word for it," Mike countered, cynicism dripping from every syllable. "And Fabray's been _incredibly sweet_ every time I've bumped into her too. In fact, Kaden and I ran into her at a deli a few weeks ago. After ordering herself a toffee frappuccino, she took one look at my little guy and asked him if he'd mind taking two pics with her. One for him and one for her. She later posted hers on Instagram and shouted us out – got a bunch of folks to donate to our GoFundMe. Kaden still can't believe it happened." Mike grinned at the memory, the happy incident the only thing to lift his son's spirits after losing his mother. "Everyone has more than one side."

"I don't doubt that she was wonderful that day, or that she has... other warm qualities despite her namesake. However, I must continue to view her as the villain until I've defeated her. The line must be distinct."

"I get that." And Mike really did. He'd seen it time and time again – fighters needing to turn their opponents into Hitler in their minds, finding that they performed better when they did. A clear-cut rival was easier to deal with than a likable acquaintance that you were setting out to maim. Or much worse in Rachel's case: an idol. "Villainize her all you need to. I heard she hides in bushes and shoots random old women."

"Not that I needed your permission, but thanks." Rachel glanced her wristwatch. "I'm going to head off; I have an appointment with my doctor. I'm due another round of stem cell shots."

"Oh, for your ankle. Good call. I can't wait to see you heal up and fight again," Mike enthused, releasing the slat in the blinds and stepping away from the window. "But I don't wanna see you spying out front tomorrow. Neurosis or no neurosis, bored or not, you gotta find a healthier way to burn time."

Rachel twisted the key in the ignition, the car rumbling to life around her. "Noted. But rest assured, I _will_ get to the bottom of this."

"I've no doubt that you will."

* * *

There was one thing on Quinn's mind and it wasn't fighting. She was sat at one end of an intimate table for two in Chateau de Belle Mange, across from a beautiful dark-skinned woman.

It was nice.

It was long overdue.

It was all that Quinn could do to refrain from grabbing Kim's hand and draging her out of the restaurant. Straight to the backseat of her car.

It wasn't the most romantic thought that Quinn had ever entertained, but since becoming the UFC Strawweight Champion her schedule had ramped up, her days bursting at the seams with media obligations, frequent drug tests, and extensive training sessions that covered a broader range of martial arts disciplines, from the Afro-Brazilian influences of Capoeira to the grit of Greco Roman Wrestling. As a result, it had been a total of two months since Quinn had touched another woman.

She bit at the corner of her bottom lip, eyes dropping from Kim's plump mouth to her perfect heart-shaped cleavage. She sighed her longing.

"I'm sorry – am I boring you?" Kim suddenly demanded.

Quinn snapped out of her stupor, clearing her throat louder than she'd intended. On a fleeting glance around the moderately populated establishment, she composed the heat within and adopted that quietly disarming yet radiant Quinn Fabray smile. Kim found herself mirroring it – all ills momentarily forgotten.

"You're not boring me."

"I mean, you've had an exciting couple of weeks – winning the belt and all. And here I am talking about my client and his... inability to follow my nutrition plan," Kim murmured into her drink, and if her complexion had been three shades lighter pink hues would have dusted her cheeks; Quinn was sure of it. Intrigue arched the blonde's eyebrow. _This_ woman, the one averting her gaze and shyly ducking her head into repeated sips of wine, was a far cry from the woman who'd moments ago slipped off her heel and caressed Quinn's inner thigh with stocking clad toes.

But Quinn, perhaps to her detriment, had always liked complexity in her women.

"Not at all," she assured her date. "I've been looking forward to some downtime. You're not boring me." She scooped advocado-infused mashed potatoe onto her spoon and made an R-rated show of sliding it past her lips, encouraging Kim to fixate on them as she confessed, "but I can't pretend that what's been going on beneath this table hasn't affected me."

Those words, draped in sensual husk, enticed Kim's sultry confidence back to the surface. She put down her glass, no longer needing to escape perceived failings. "You wanna head to my place after we get done eating?" she whispered across the table. "I'll show you my other skills."

Quinn's spoon clattered to her plate. She snatched her elegant clutch purse from the table. "How about we just skip the food and head to your place now?"

Kim giggled, girlish. "Wow. Someone's eager. How about," she began, running a finger along Quinn's hand, "we finish our food first? I didn't eat all day today and I wanna be able to give you the kind of performance you always give your fans." She sealed the suggestion with a dirty wink that did nothing to quell Quinn's desire.

"Uh... sure."

"So!" Kim exclaimed as if to turn the page. "When's your next fight, and will you hook me up with free tickets?"

Following a reluctant chuckle Quinn rolled her eyes, still recovering from the news that she'd have to wait a while longer to peel away Kim's clothes. "There's no date set yet. I'm still waiting for an official dance partner. But sure, I'll get you and a couple of your friends tickets."

"Aw," Kim cooed, pressing a touched palm to her chest. "You're such a sweetheart. Thanks Quinn."

"I hope you still think I'm a sweetheart once you're sat front row watching me knock said dance partner out. What I do has scared women off before."

"Seriously?"

Quinn shrugged. "I think they think I'm gonna headbutt them the moment they say something I don't like."

Kim ran preening fingers through her dark hair, face a mask of surprise. "That's crazy! I never would've thought that _you_ would have problems luring in the ladies."

"Oh, getting them isn't the issue," Quinn clarified, sending a demonstrative wink across the table, to which Kim grinned knowingly and nodded, amused. "Getting them to stick around once exposed to my fights and busy schedule is."

Kim ducked her head into another nod, this one soft and solitary, her gaze sympathetic. "That sucks. Good thing I'm already familiar with the MMA world." She sliced her steak in half, recalling the countless fighters whose nutrition she'd corrected over the years. "I guess some people will always view prize fighters as brutish thugs, which is ridiculous 'cause you guys are easily the most disciplined athletes in the world. Like, striking uses a different energy system to say – grappling or clinch work, you know?"

The autumnal hues that comprised Quinn's irises took on a deep warmth. "You're preaching to the choir and it's _such_ a beautiful sound."

"No but you guys use all those energy systems for one sport – have to be able to switch from one system to the other at the drop of a hat. It's a lot to demand from your bodies. So many of you do it so effortlessly. I mean, look" – Kim sat up straighter – "yes, some fighters come from messed up backgrounds and the thug gene's strong in some, but look at Rich Franklin. A successful math teacher turned prize fighter. Heavyweight champ, Stipe Miocic, is a part-time firefighter. Kenny Florian: successful as a financial document translator. Rachel Berry, a successful –"

"Broadway actress," Quinn murmured.

Kim frowned, dabbing the corner of her mouth with the provided napkin. She swallowed the bite of steak she'd been chewing, further assessed the abrupt change in vibe, and asked, "did I say something wrong?"

"No."

"Sure?"

"Berry and I, we don't like each other," Quinn explained. "I'm hoping to fight her next as a matter of fact."

"Is there some beef between you guys, other than having fought before, that I don't know about?" Kim asked, to which Quinn looked at her sort of funny. "Forgive me, but I don't follow MMA's endless dramas. I help athletes make weight, correct deficiencies, come up with diet plans to fuel specific training regimes, and watch fight cards a couple times a month."

"Okay. Well, I beat her already and –"

"No, I knew that," Kim interrupted, "and I know you're supposed to fight her again some time in the future. I just didn't know there was drama behind it."

"I'm the product of a strict and stifling – at the risk of sending you running – WASP upbringing. She's an obsessively-driven former singer-actress, who's insanely good at chanelling the multiple personalities that live in her head. Drama was guaranteed."

Kim snorted at the blunt rundown. "Wow. Fill me in on what happened?"

It was a good thing that Kim wasn't aware of the drama, Quinn supposed. But not really, because she was bound to investigate now that she knew about it, and when she did she was going to discover Quinn's cruel and petty side. She was going to discover it in spades.

Quinn decided it best to preface what Google would eventually reveal with the truth.

She sighed. "I once asked her out to dinner. She somehow found a way to take offense to that, snapped at me, and then stormed off."

"Maybe she's not into women," Kim reasoned.

Quinn shrugged like even if that was true it wasn't an excuse for the way that Rachel had behaved. "We fought years later, I beat her, and she's been obsessed with getting the rematch ever since," she added. "And now, to try to make me look stupid, she's telling media outlets about how she spurned my advances. Up until I won the championship, every media appearance I made – that's the only thing they were asking me about, which got annoying real fast. She's all big talk on social media, is a terrible sport, and most offensive of all?" Quinn glared at nothing specific. "She claims my win over her was a fluke – that she's the superior fighter. See my problem?"

"Oh, I see your problem alright," Kim murmured, staring off somewhere behind Quinn, who frowned at the peculiar inflection to her tone. She sought to follow her date's gaze, twisting in her seat to accommodate a backwards glance.

A backwards glance that morphed into a stare just as fixed as Kim's... once she spotted Rachel and an older lady who very much resembled her, and looked somewhat familiar, ambling towards the adjacent table.

Their eyes met, fierce hazel on smug chestnut brown – Rachel quite happy to dust something off of her skinny jeans and adjust her white, form-fitting, off-the-shoulder crop top, under the acidic scrutiny. Like she was home amongst comforts and Quinn's scowl was inconsequential.

"You sure you want to sit here?" Shelby asked, slow to draw out her chair. Her sight bounced warily between Quinn and Rachel, her daughter greeting the question with a sure nod and an undeterred smile.

"Of course! Sit. We're celebrating."

Satisfied, Shelby sat down. And as Rachel placed her purse on the table, she did too.

"You really couldn't find anywhere else to sit?" Quinn started, everything about her delivery tight and snippy.

"Good evening to you too Quinn," Rachel chirped, like there was one-upmanship in a chipper tone. "We live in the same city. If you find running into me so unpalatable, perhaps you should look into moving."

"Maybe we should leave," Kim quickly whispered over her plate.

Quinn heard nothing but the mocking reverberations of Rachel's jovial rebuttal.

She surveyed her rival's appearance, smothering strong attraction in favor of gathering ammunition. "You strolled over here pretty well in those heels. How's that ankle? Ready to take that second loss yet?"

"Hey now –"

"No, it's okay mom," Rachel assured Shelby. She then grinned at Quinn, who finally managed to connect the primly-dressed older lady's face with Broadway. "I visited my doctor three days ago. He said I should be cleared to inflict unimaginable misery on your body soon. As a result I feel like a new woman, and that's cause for celebration."

"I doubt your doctor used those words," Kim argued.

Rachel pinned her with a look. "Those were the _exact_ words he used. In that order." She stayed on the woman, as though challenging her to disagree.

Quinn scoffed, disbelief pulling a thin humorless chuckle from her throat. "Wow, you're actually trying to intimidate my date into buying your delusions? This is the point we've gotten to?"

"I merely stated simple facts."

"Whilst staring her down."

"Oh please. She needn't flatter herself."

"It's always so sad when the bullied become the bully," Quinn goaded, recalling an interview where Rachel had talked about being tortured in high school on a daily basis.

"And it's always so satisfying when the ruthless high school bully finally gets her butt handed to her, which I _will_ do the next time we fight."

"I love how you believe everything you read about me on the internet," Quinn growled.

"Trust me Quinn, you bullying your peers is not a stretch for the imagination."

"You know nothing about me!"

Rachel picked up a menu, asking Shelby, "what do you have an appetite for? I was thinking about ordering a vegan curry."

Quinn snatched her glass of wine, droplets of rich red liquid spilling as she took it to her lips and gulped the lot, later returning it to the table with a weighty thud. She felt Kim's eyes on her but the anger was louder than her guilt, so she kept quiet. Apologies regarding this disaster would have to wait.

"I'm uh – I'm gonna head to the bathroom," Kim muttered, slipping her foot back into its heel and excusing herself.

When thirteen minutes went by with no sign of her date, Quinn began to theorize that Kim had either escaped out the bathroom window or slipped out the front entrance when she hadn't been looking. She felt like an asshole and probably looked like one sat finishing her dinner alone. But Rachel was a bigger one.

Quinn waited ten more minutes for Kim to show her face, and when Kim didn't, she stood up, threw a hundred dollar bill to the table, and slipped into her coat.

"Leaving so soon?" Rachel asked. "Where's your lovely lady friend?" She regarded the seat that had once held Quinn's date and smirked. "Don't worry. You're Quinn, 'The Ice Queen,' Fabray. Give it thirty minutes and I'm sure you will have found someone else to keep you warm tonight."

Quinn said nothing, instead choosing to button up her coat, each movement measured and icy-calm as she peered directly into the smug brunette's eyes. She continued to say nothing as she gently pushed her chair in under the table and stepped behind Rachel, looming over her.

"If you touch my daughter I'll have the cops all over you in an instant," Shelby promised, projecting an icy countenance of her own.

Unfazed by the presence behind her Rachel let it be known that, "she's not going to do a thing. She'd be stripped of the belt in an instant if she were reckless enough to do so."

Quinn ignored them both. She leaned down a breath away from Rachel's ear. "You ruined my night. Congrats, sweet cheeks," she purred, the soft provoking whisper hot, heavy, and moist in Rachel's ear. "But I'll take a ruined night over a ruined career, which you're headed for once fans realize you're not good enough to win the belt. If you're behaving like this after one loss, they're gonna have to section you after I deal you _another_ one. I'll visit you too. Seeing you look all cute and sexy in your straight jacket – who could pass that up?"

"I believe your sexual frustration is showing."

"Mm-hm," Quinn hummed. "And it's gonna show itself again the next time I get you in the cage – when I take your back, wrap my legs around you, and choke you unconscious... _again_."

As Rachel recalled the powerless sensation of blacking out in Quinn's arms her jaw tensed. Merely millimeters away, Quinn watched the expanse of tan skin that paved the bone pulse. Satisfied with the reaction, she smiled to herself and walked away, taking the heat of presence with her.

Shelby shoved her plate aside, apetite gone. "What the hell was that?"

Rachel drew in a short recovering breath. "Mental warefare," she responded. "That woman wants to kill me, and that's only going to make her easier to beat."

Rachel's Broadway success flashed through Shelby's mind like a majestic firework that abruptly caught fire. The prestige, the stardom, the God-given talent... all wasted. It'd been years since Shelby had openly voiced her disdain for mixed martial arts as a career path for her daughter, instead choosing to support Rachel so that they could have a chance at close a relationship. She'd hardly been in any position to waltz into Rachel's life making demands after her longstanding absence.

But after the crass display she'd just witnessed, the gloves were off. "This is what you left the stage for? So you could roll around on the floor with women who can't decide whether they'd like to kiss or kill you?"

"It seems as though you've taken that particular verb literally, which further demonstrates just how little you understand about MMA," Rachel pointed out in a biting tone. "Quinn performs best when calm," she explained. "She won't have that in our next bout if I give her enough reasons to want to tear my head off."

"You're my daughter! When you tell me that someone you're preparing to fight wants to kill you, I'm taking it literally!" Shelby shook her head, expelling a stressed huff. "And you might want to look into the UFC's policy regarding sexual harassment, because that woman is looking for any excuse to grab you where she shouldn't."

Rachel snorted. For all the things she thought of Quinn, molester wasn't among them. It wasn't a surprise that this was yet another facet of her craft that Shelby didn't understand – that when you were locked in a cage with someone who was set to do everything within their power to hurt you, fondling them always failed to make the priority list.

"I can promise you that Quinn will not touch me in a sexually inappropriate manner," she said, top lip curled up in offense, though Shelby wasn't sure who for – the sport of MMA or Quinn. "I can appreciate that you don't know what it's like to step into the octagon and fight another person. But if you did you'd see the error in your thinking. Furthermore, I highly doubt that molestation operates within Quinn's character. The two of us may not get along, but I consistently hear good things about her from credible members of the MMA community."

"Like that means anything."

"Actually it does. If she were grabbing women inappropriately in the gym it would've made the gossip rounds by now," Rachel highlighted.

"So now you're her biggest fan?"

"I was trying to put your mind at ease. She might be attracted to me, but she's not going to feel me up on the way to a North-south choke."

Shelby winced at the blunt wording and the lewd imagery that it created, despite not knowing what a North-south choke was or what it looked like.

"Sorry," Rachel said as she caught Shelby's awkwardness. "I guess I got swept up in the moment."

"I'll say."

Rachel ducked her head on a sheepish blush and aimlessly dragged her spoon through her curry.

"I'm not referring to what you just said," Shelby clarified. "You were hard on Quinn's date when there was no need to be. That all part of the script too?" she challenged. "You don't know her. She could be waiting for us in the parking lot with a gun in her purse."

"She deserved every word I spat her way!" Rachel huffed, adamant. "The woman was _barely_ dressed and had the audacity to try demand more attention by arguing with me about what _my_ doctor said?"

Shelby's eyebrow inched up in suspicion. She may not have raised Rachel, but she knew her as she knew herself. "Hold on a second – are you attracted to Quinn?"

"Who isn't?"

The flippant admission broke Shelby's serious air, putting an incredulous laugh in her throat. She looked around the restaurant, at a loss for words. Hiram and Leroy were going to freak out when they learned of this. She could just see it now.

"Stop losing your mind; nothing will ever come of it. I'm much more attracted to the belt she currently holds," Rachel said. "Nothing is going to keep me from taking it from her."

* * *

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter.** **Let me know what you think.**


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four:

The idea sparked to life on social media, instigated by a fan poll on the UFC's official Facebook page.

_Which fighter do you want to see on the UFC YouTube series: Lights Out?_

_Michael Bisping._

_Rachel Berry._

_Derrick Lewis._

_Paige Vanzant._

_Quinn Fabray._

_Sage Northcutt._

Despite the other choices, fifty percent of the fans had chosen Rachel, the other fifty: Quinn – each side blasting the other in the comments with accusations of being lowly casual-fans who didn't know anything substantive about MMA.

A man who definitely knew MMA, however, was Eric Dupont. He also knew TV, which was why he was the Head of the UFC's TV department.

The YouTube exclusive _Lights Out_ series has been his idea – a concept borne from the UFC's growing need to forge connections between fans and lesser known fighters who were climbing the ranks. It was simple: sit a fighter down in front of a camera for medium to close-up shots, turn the lights down a little, have the fighter talk about one or two interesting life events, and then have him answer a few probing fan questions. All sliced together with backdrops of quietly playing music where the production warranted it.

Though simple, the series had been a fast creeping success. _UFC: Fight Night_ cards, which were often lacking in star power, saw steady increases in viewership. Fans came to know the fighters who were headlining those smaller cards, now invested enough to want to follow their careers. The series became an in-built star-making machine, the fighters who'd had interesting stories and natural charisma gaining thousands of followers overnight.

With each twenty-minute episode, the series grew to such heights that MMA's more mainstream stars began to make appearances. And quite clearly half of the fans wanted to see a Quinn Fabray episode next. The other half demanding a Rachel Berry installment.

The solution?

"Let's get 'em both on the show in a special one-off episode," Eric proposed. Wide-eyed, he trailed his hand through the air in a broad stroke, as if to pain his vision. "It'll be _fireworks_!"

Dana issued him an intrigued but skeptical look.

"What?" Eric asked. "The idea's money! The intimate low lighting, the fan questions, the insight into both fighters' thoughts on the other – and hey, we'll get them to prepare a personal question or two for each other. It's gold!"

"Hey. Hey," Dana chuckled, thrusting both hands up palms facing away, like he wasn't the one who needed convincing. "I'm _all_ the way sold on this thing. But Berry and Fabray? Neither's gonna say yes to this. They can't _stand_ ," he emphasized, leaning into the pronunciation with an amused grin, "each other."

Eric folded his arms, his formal shoe tapping Dana's immaculate office floor. "It's just such a great idea," he murmured, mostly to himself. He looked to his boss then, suddenly present again. "I've been considering pitching an idea like this to you for a while. It seems the time is now!" he enthused. "Berry and Fabray are perfect for it! They're both beautiful, are likely going to fight soon, and are some of the best talent we have to offer. Reality TV format is hot right now, so the special would bring in casual fans. The ones that aren't already stalking Fabray's Instagram for those bordering-on-revealing pics she sometimes posts, at least."

Dana thought of his wife, and although his cheeky smile suggested he'd seen the pictures in question, he kept quiet, neither confirming not denying their existence.

His silence, however, was perfect because Eric hadn't finished. "The hardcore fans will love the insight – the chemistry between Fabray and Berry. All leading to more pay-per-view buys when they fight again. This special is as good for them, monetarily, as it is the UFC."

"Like I said, I'd fuckin' love to see it. It would drive a shit-ton more interest towards the sport, and it'll entertain the crap outta everybody. But I can only ask 'em and they can only say yes or no."

"What if I have an ace up my sleeve that'll likely ensure they say yes?"

"Drop it on me."

* * *

When Shelby had flown to Los Angeles from New York to spend some long overdue time with her daughter, she hadn't expected this…

She swallowed hard, the cartilage in her throat visibly revolving. "There is not a chance in hell that you're going to see me –"

"What?" a far too pleased Rachel interrupted. "Rolling around on the floor with other women?" she asked, echoing her mother's ignorance.

"Yes! Not a chance!"

Undeterred by the adamant refusal, Rachel tossed Shelby a gi, the cream cotton jacket with reinforced trousers briefly dipping Shelby's trunk as it draped her shoulder.

On a slow turn on the head, Shelby murmured, "are you kidding me?" at the uniform, bewildered by its unlikely weight.

"I don't kid!" Rachel quite comically announced, pushing open the large double doors to reveal a vast room full of grappling and sparring students – coaches peppered throughout.

Shelby shook her head, once and with vigor, certain that, "you're never going to get me to do any of _that_! No way!"

"If our conversation at dinner was any indication, you seem to be under the grossly misguided impression that grappling is just this lackadaisical thing where combatants are free to fondle one another and take naps on each other's bosoms as they see fit," Rachel reminded her, all too aware that Jujitsu was this grueling character tester; a floor bound chess match between two knowledgeable bodies. "Well, dearest mother, you're going to learn different today."

"Alright!" Shelby acquiesced, looking to Rachel. "I get it! What you do takes skill and grit and moxie. It's not just rolling around on the floor. Now get this whale off of my shoulder and let's go!"

Satisfied – only partially though, because she would have loved to've seen Shelby down on the mat caught in the unyielding web of another's limbs – Rachel plucked the gi from her mother's shoulder and threw it over her own. "Skill and grit and moxie, _and_ intelligence, _and_ creativity, _and_ technical superiority. It's also a feel game. You must be in tune with your opponent's body," she further corrected. "It looks pretty gay – for lack of a better word – on television. To the untrained eye at least. But it's not just two members of the same sex humping each other, as so many seem to think. I repeatedly hear novices ask why fighters don't just get back up once they've been taken down." She snorted. "Like it's that simple. One session in and those novices would understand why."

"Rachel, I get it. It's not foreplay," came Shelby's flat response.

"No. No I don't think that you _do_ get it!" Rachel staunchly maintained, to which Shelby hopelessly threw her hands up, completely missing the way that chestnut eyes similar to her own swam with quiet mirth. "I'm kidding," Rachel revealed after a beat, breaking into a full grin.

Shelby rolled her eyes affably. "I thought jokes were supposed to be funny?"

"I thought jokes were supposed to be funny," Rachel mimicked.

Shelby could only hope that the silly voice wasn't an imitation of her own. "One of us is buzzing," she pointed out, feeling her phone through her coat pocket before glancing Rachel, who'd already unearthed hers and was taking it to her ear with a smile.

"Hey Jesse. How are things?"

"Things are like so: I just got off the phone with Dana White."

Rachel hummed, all ears.

"He proposed that you appear on an episode of _Lights Out_ –"

"Oh, well that sounds fun," Rachel chirped, always happy to connect with her fans. The ones who were respectful of her personal space at least. "When is filming scheduled?"

"Well you didn't let me finish," Jesse gently chastised, to which Rachel made a slight face. "A recent poll revealed that fans would like to see you on the next episode. You received fifty-percent of the votes."

Rachel smiled in the face of her popularity – then quickly frowned once she digested that she'd only gotten half the votes.

Shelby mirrored it, mouthing, "what's wrong?" at her daughter. But it went unanswered.

"Fabray received the other fifty percent," Jesse revealed. "Dana now wants to do a _Lights Out_ episode with you both. Fabray has already agreed to it – without hesitation, Dana was sure to let me know. Perhaps to make you feel like you couldn't back down since she hadn't. Either way they now just need the green light from you."

Rachel placed a hand on her hip and considered the situation. "What will be the tone on set?" she asked.

"Low light. Laid back. The usual."

That was what Rachel had been afraid of. Relaxed and intimate wasn't going to cut it. Not when Quinn was present. She wanted to rile the detached blonde at every opportunity – to see heat rise in those pretty hazel eyes; her lips quirking to accommodate thin smiles that failed to fool those witnessing them. A day on the _Lights Out_ set chit-chatting with her adversary about interesting – and often endearing, if past viewing of the show was any indication – events that had occurred in their lives would fly in the face of her mission to anger and villainize the champion. She didn't want to know Quinn. She knew enough, and that had hindered her ability to perform the first time they'd met in the cage.

"Rachel?"

"Yes, I'm here. I'm just pondering this from as many perspectives as possible."

"Well," Jesse began, "as someone who cares deeply about you and your career, I would encourage you to look at it from a promotional standpoint. This special will do large numbers. It'll drive more eyes to your next fight with her, lining your pockets."

"And yours," Rachel was sure to highlight, her ex-boyfriend's thirst for riches ever-present.

Jesse snickered, admitting, "and mine."

"It's just that…"

"What are your concerns?"

A long sigh poured from Rachel. "What will be the segments?"

"You'll both be prompted to tell personal stories based off of fan questions. What's the worst date you've ever been on; if you could fight in any weight division which one would it be and why. You know, stuff like that. Then you'll both ask each other some questions."

For reasons not all that clear to Rachel, her heart quickened. "What kind of questions?"

"Any kind. What do you want to ask her?"

The moment that Rachel thought it her spine erected, jaw setting. "I'd like to ask her where she's been training her Muay Thai! I suspect that she's been working with Angel, and I'm not okay with that!"

"Then that's what you'll ask her."

"And I'm not answering any questions I don't feel comfortable with!"

"In the event that you were resistant to the special, Dana told me to inform you that a portion of the proceeds from the video's ad revenue would go to a charity of your choice. Fabray's too. With charitable organizations attached to this, I seriously doubt that Fabray will ask you anything inappropriate."

Rachel hummed, impressed. Her dad, Hiram, had suffered a stroke a year ago, resulting in random bouts of unsteadiness that mostly affected his hands. It wasn't the most severe side effect, but that hadn't made the sudden episodes of instability any less frightening for Rachel or her father, Leroy. There were people out there who were dealing with life-altering post stroke ramifications. Rachel couldn't fathom the heartache, which was why her mind was made up.

"The American Stroke Association will be my charity of choice. Let me know the filming schedule."

Jesse smiled. "Will do. Toodles."

* * *

"Hold that pose for me, Quinn!"

"Like this?"

"That's it." The camera flashed. "Awesome! Now we'll get some shots with your belt." The photographer withdrew his eye from behind the camera and snapped his fingers at a nearby woman, before pointing at the championship, which was draped over the back of a close-by chair. "Can you fit Quinn's waist with the belt please?"

The woman took off scurrying, tossing a run-ragged, "sure," over her shoulder.

Quinn knew the feeling. Stood before a plain white backdrop, clad in her signature Nike-sponsored pink spandex fight attire, she swung idol arms back and forth and glanced the far wall clock. She doubted whether she'd seen the inside of her home the past day or so with all the side projects she'd partaken in. And now shows such as _Dancing With The Stars_ and _Game Of Thrones_ were beating at her door. Shows whose calls for America's favorite fighting beauty would ultimately go unanswered.

Today's obligation, however, had been inescapable. The UFC wanted to update their website with new pictures of their championship fighters. So here Quinn was, stood before a bunch of strangers who kept preening her hair and dusting make-up brushes across her abs which, in her opinion, were already impressive enough. Still, she carried herself as she believed a champion should. She held her tongue when she wanted to impale the overly persistent make-up artist with it, she ignored Puck's wolf whistle when he breezed by on the way to his own shoot, and she allowed the photographer to mold her around the shots that he needed.

Once the shoot concluded, Quinn peeled off her fight gear and slipped back into her street clothes. She'd planned to head straight home, catch a few hours of sleep, and then hit the gym for her third and final training session of the day. But as she sought the building's exit she passed through the foyer, which had boasted a modern open-space café that had been closed when she'd first arrived – now sparsely populated with smartly-dressed staff and one or two fighters who'd also just gotten done with their shoots.

The scent of strong coffee and toasted bagels lured her to a quiet corner table.

Before long she was sipping a toffee frappuccino, her jaw churning around a large bite of chicken tikka salad as she skimmed an MMA-related article on her phone.

"Room for one more, champ?"

Quinn's eyes flickered up, taking in a smirking Puck whose one eyebrow was laced with stitches from his recent fight with Lolacoff. He drew out the chair opposite her before she could protest, and sat, his fingers still fastening the top three buttons of his colourful plaid shirt.

"Man, I'm pretty sure the make-up guy was a perve – kept inventing excuses to touch my abs. He even _tripped_ ," Puck said cynically, rabbit-earing his fingers around the word, "face first into them. Almost broke a cheekbone on these rock-hard babies."

_Two creeps in one building. Great_ , Quinn thought, going back to the article on her phone.

"You're not gonna talk? The ice queen moniker rings true once more," Puck laughed, mock-rubbing his chest like the blonde's silence was a bullet that had skimmed the flesh.

"I didn't tell you you could sit opposite me. You invited yourself. So you can talk _to_ yourself."

"Really, it's like that?"

"Sure is," Quinn said before she took a nonchalant sip of her drink.

"Look," Puck began, dropping the boyish charm that the world celebrated him for, "I don't know why you don't like me, but if it's 'cause you're mad that Rachel blew you off 'cause she wasn't over me yet, then –"

Quinn snorted out a low chuckle that stilled Puck' tongue. She dropped her phone into her coat pocket and met Puck's gaze with her own, holding it with some intensity. "You know, you remind me of a guy I forced myself to date in high school."

Puck kept quiet and waited for the odd divulgence to continue, but when it didn't, and Quinn continued to pin him with motionless eyes that contained glints of dark amusement, he fidgeted uncomfortably, blowing out a stressed breath. "Fuck, I'm so glad I'm not a Strawweight. Hell, even as a middleweight Dana could offer me a mil and I _still_ wouldn't get in the cage with you."

"Because you know you'd get handled," came Quinn's dry quip.

Despite them both knowing it wasn't plausible that she could compete with him in an actual fight – he was twice her size and five times as strong after all – Puck felt his forehead break a sweat under Quinn's unwavering scrutiny. He'd never been more intimidated _and_ turned on in a single moment.

"You don't have to worry about that though," Quinn added, piercing various leaves on her plate with her fork, "since no athletic commission would ever sanction a fight between a man and a woman. Berry, on the other hand, should be worried." She slipped the forked leaves past her lips, each crunch crisp and indifferent.

Though Puck understood the insane level of self-certainty one needed to be able to compete in their primal sport, he felt his hackles rise; Rachel was his best friend. "If she's gotta be worried you do too. She's only doing light training at the moment, but I've seen her tear through guys only a little smaller than myself. She's a powerhouse and she's hungry."

Quinn smirked. "You think that scares me?"

"With how easy she's making things look, on essentially just one foot, it probably should."

Quinn's smirk graduated to an easy melodic chuckle that exposed her neck as she threw her head back. "I've been a part of this game from the start – and I'm not talking about your start; I'm talking about women's MMA. That start, when MMA gyms were turning us away at the door and laughing at the absurd notion that we could hang with guys in training. When women weren't even allowed to fight in major fight promotions. I was the only chick in my gym back then once they finally let me train with them. For years, I _only_ grappled men. The only people I sparred were guys. Where do you think I learned to take such punishment? And you think I could show it when their shots fucked me up? They would've laughed themselves silly, satisfied that they'd taught me a lesson for daring to leave the kitchen. We had to work twice as hard just to prove we belonged. We had to go hard with the guys. If Berry _wasn't_ throwing guys around, especially with the Judo skills she has, I'd consider her an unworthy opponent."

Aptly schooled, Puck nodded his respect for his fellow female athletes and all that they'd had to do to rise to positions that had always been there for him. "I know but I'm just telling you. Our guys are no joke. Neither is Rachel."

Quinn smiled, quite happy to admit, "I know she's no joke. Why do you think I'm so eager to fight her again?"

"Because she grates on you. To try to prove the first fight result wasn't a fluke."

"Like you wouldn't believe," Quinn confirmed without hesitation. "But even more than that, I know how much she wants to be number one. I felt it," she said, a soft reverence dancing at the edges of her voice as she remembered the moment that Rachel went limp in her squeeze.

It was a moment that had become a staple in Quinn's TV montage highlight reel – that legendary moment when the tenacious Rachel Berry, purple-faced and sweaty, flat-out refused to tap to Quinn's vice-like squeeze, and as a result went to sleep whilst throwing listless punches at the air.

Quinn herself had fallen prey to rear naked chokes in the gym. They were terrifying, impossibly uncomfortable, and sometimes painful depending on the type of grip used to secure them, eliciting an almost irresistible instinctual panic that forced even the most elite competitors to tap-out as soon as the choke was sunken in. Yet Rachel had bitten down on her mouth guard, dug her heels in, and made the unlikely decision not to quit, no matter how hellish the sensation. Her body had needed to power down to save her from her own indomitable will. She'd literally gone out punching, Quinn marvelled.

The experience had told Quinn everything she'd needed to know about who Rachel was as a competitor. "I know she's going to bring everything she has into that cage, and she's gonna throw it all at me. Nobody's going to push me like Berry will. Call me deranged – and you won't because firefights are your thing too – but that excites me. Knowing that she's coming for me gives me a reason to put those training sessions in when all I wanna do is go home and sleep."

Quinn's charmed gaze veered off and fixated into the future, upon moments of the fight that had yet to happen, but were inevitable. "We're going to draw the best out of each other. There will be no hiding from ourselves or each other. She'll feel who I am, and I'll feel who she is. Our doubts, our determination, our fears; laid out before the other. Heaven and earth will crumble around our traded blows, and somehow the two of us will be the only ones left standing – fighting for what we know belongs to us." She blinked, looking to Puck. "It's gonna be one of those fights. Career-defining and one for the history books. I can't wait."

Shivers raced up and down a slack-jawed Puck's spine. "I like… legit got goosebumps. You made it sound so poetic. Romantic even."

"Fighting is beautiful."

"Sure is," he eagerly agreed. "So is Rachel."

Sensing the direction in which the conversation was headed, Quinn rolled her eyes. "She's an asshole. That kinda negates the beauty."

Puck eased into a grin. "I know you wanna have sex with her."

"Really? And what are next week's winning lottery numbers gonna be, mystic one?"

"Whatever. I don't need a crystal ball to see where you two are at with each other."

Quinn raised an eyebrow, intrigued by Puck's wording. _You two? Each other?_

"You'd love a night with Rachel, wouldn't you?"

"If only to sit on her face so she can't talk."

Puck erupted in laughter, slapping the table. "That's hilarious! And fuck, _so_ _so_ hot!"

Quinn shot him a cloying smile and made a show of how sharp her fork was, singing, "put your eyeballs back in your head before I remove them."

Puck immediately deadpanned. "Hey, don't hurt me. I'm just a red-blooded guy. I can't help it. It's hot, and I know you agree. If you didn't you wouldn't wanna hit it so bad."

"I'm not sure whether you've noticed, but there are other attractive women out there," Quinn stated haughtily. "It's hilarious that you think I'm sitting around pining after Berry."

Puck wasn't sold for a second. He'd seen how they bickered, and yes a lot of it was mind games and bravado, but there was something else there – on Rachel's part too, he'd noticed. Something crackling beneath the surface that threatened to be big if released. Something fuelling their fervor. "Sure, other women are out there. But… none of them are Rachel," he murmured, knowing that excruciating fact first-hand.

"Wait, you mean they're not obnoxious and infuriating? Sounds like a win to me," Quinn quipped, only noticing the somewhat dejected air that had befallen Puck a moment later. She drained the last of her frappucino and found herself asking, "why'd you guys break up?"

Puck leaned back in his chair and ruffled his Mohawk on a long troubled sigh. "I cheated on her."

"Why?"

A thin chuckle broke though Puck's forlorn. "This is the first time you say more than two words to me and you're asking me shit this personal?"

"You just told me you think I'm desperate to bang Berry. Personal?" Quinn drawled, as if the word was a foreign concept they'd long ago stopped adhering to.

"We just didn't see stuff the same way," Puck caved, slowly rubbing his palms up and down his thighs in what was a nervous tick, Quinn guessed. "Not the way two people who are tryna move forward together should anyway. She's an all or nothin' kinda person – her way or no way. Or maybe she was just like that with me 'cause our world views are so different. I don't know. We just… we had yet another disagreement about something and I… fucked a couple groupies."

"Figures."

The blasé utterance rubbed Puck wrong. "Figures?" he demanded.

"Yes – that your weapon of choice, the one you'd use to punish her, would be the flap of skin in your pants," Quinn clarified, brow quirked in challenge. "And it figures that Berry would drive you batshit."

"Gee, thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"She's actually an amazing girlfriend," Puck recalled with a slight smile. "She loves as hard as she trains, and you feel it. But I didn't know what to do with that at the time. I didn't deserve her. We were just… not a good fit."

Quinn watched the UFC's number one middleweight, seeing him in a new light. Gone was the nauseating charisma, the annoying cheeky grin, the constant innuendo. The lewd leer. This, here, was just a man. Not a character. Quinn respected that.

She gathered her things and stood up. "That guy I forced myself to date, the one I said you reminded me of," she suddenly said.

"Yeah?"

"He was sure of himself. Too sure. So sure that when I told him no, he thought it was a good idea to try to keep going. I kneed him in his balls so hard I'm willing to bet kids aren't an option even now." Quinn smirked at the memory of Jake crumbling, his face twisted in agony as he dry-heaved over a bed of roses.

"Hey, I'm not some creepy pervert!"

"I know that," Quinn said. " _Now_ ," she added, touching Puck's shoulder and issuing him a real smile before she began to walk away.

"Hey Quinn?"

Her brisk footsteps ceased. "What?"

"Make sure you don't use anythin' I just told you as ammunition in your war of words with Rachel."

"In case you haven't noticed, Puck, I prefer to let my fists do the talking."

* * *

**Next up? Lights Out. Tell me what you thought.**


	5. Chapter Five

**I know I said it would be Lights Out next but life is happening right now, and rather than waiting longer before updating, I figured I'd just post this and then continue with the Lights Out stuff. There is faberry interaction though ;)  
**

* * *

Chapter Five:

"Road trip! Road trip! Road trip!"

"Would you stop that?" Rachel scolded.

"Road trip! Road tr–"

Rachel swatted Noah's pumping fist. "We're flying on a multi-million-dollar private jet courtesy of the UFC. Not slumming it through traffic on a long stretch of road. Air trip would be the more apt chant, not that I'm in any way encouraging it."

"You're such a snob," Noah accused, though it was without malice. He reached down and pressed the button that was built into his beige leather seat, giggling like a kid with a wind-up toy when the chair reclined and powered vibrations through his body – his face in particular, which began to tremble slightly from lip to brow. For as hard as Rachel had tried to steer them away from juvenile antics, she blurted out a brief high pitched laugh and grabbed her phone from the glass table, pointing it at the ridiculous scene.

"Okay so... it's – we're recording! We're live!" she announced. "Quick, say hello to all of my Instagram followers."

Noah gave the phone an exuberant wave. "What's up world?" he told it. "This is our life now, people. Private jets and lavish sunsets. Hashtag: check it out."

Following the impromptu cue, Rachel slowly panned the camera around their luxurious surroundings, capturing the prestigious interior, the chilled champagne, the built-in sofa that spanned the plane's one side, and the extravagant flat-screen televisions, complete with personalized headsets and company tablet devices.

She then turned the camera on herself, combing swift fingers through the dark tussled strands that flowed out from beneath her stylish black sun hat. "Hi everyone." She waved, only slightly self-conscious of the fact that she'd yet to apply any make-up. "We're currently on our way to Las Vegas – to Torrey Pines. We're going to the much acclaimed thirty-thousand-square-foot UFC Performance Institute, where we'll be staying, training, and recovering whilst I'm out there shooting a project. Unlike many of my fellow UFC athletes, I've yet to experience the state-of-the-art facilities at the institute. So this will be a first for me."

"What are you gonna check out first?" Noah asked from somewhere in the background. "The cryotherapy chamber or the underwater treadmill? – Ooh, I'm heading _straight_ for the 3D motion capture zone. Always wanted to know the exact numbers for the force on my kicks!"

"The hyperbaric chamber sounds extremely interesting. To train, enter the chamber, and then have it heal any minor injuries or soreness sounds magical – especially with my ankle still healing."

Noah casually rubbed the back of his head. "Yeah, how's that thing work again?"

"Well," Rachel began with a pleased grin, delighted that he had asked the question whilst she was recording, "I've been reading up on it. It is essentially oxygen therapy," she told both Noah and her phone, "which enhances the body's natural healing process when one-hundred-percent oxygen is inhaled in a controlled environment. Hence the chamber."

Aboard an identical company jet, which too was headed for Torrey Pines, Santana shook her head at the two dorks in the Instagram live video. "Are Berry and her fuck-boy ex serious? These mother fuckers actin' like they're headed to a Caribbean cruise or some shit."

From where she lay dozing with her head in Santana's lap, Brittany released a soft snort. "Fuck-boy," she snickered as she turned onto her side and blindly reached up to guide Santana's hand to her head. "Baby, play with my hair."

The sleepy request saw Santana's fingers glide into her fiancée's silken blonde tresses. She combed the velvety body with one hand and spun the tablet device around with the other. "Q, check these morons out."

Splayed out on the sofa across from them, Quinn cut her gaze away from the lines of text in her book, the protagonist's account of his twisted Scientology childhood evaporating as she came face to face with Puck and Rachel goofing around on the live stream. Without make-up the annoying brunette was infuriatingly cute, Quinn noticed, albeit begrudgingly.

She narrowed unimpressed eyes at Santana. "You interrupted my reading to show me that?"

"Please; like you haven't dreamt about seeing Berry first thing in the morning before."

"Fuck you," Quinn murmured, the sentiment a contradiction to her almost demure tone. A demure tone that she'd tried to pass off as aloof, Brittany noted even whilst dozing. "Besides," Quinn said, snapping her book shut, "something that Puck let slip at the shoot the other day makes me think Berry's the one who'd like to wake up next to me."

"Well would you look at that," Santana quipped. "Sweetie, I know self-delusion goes hand in hand with fighting, and that to make it to championship status in the UFC you gots to be _at least_ a little unhinged, but you've reached a whole new level if you think Berry wants you all up in her berry. That midget is out for blood. Your blood."

Quinn shrugged a shoulder; maybe she _was_ way off.

"I wouldn't be so sure, baby," Brittany chimed in. "Remember how we were when we first met?"

Santana smiled. She sure did remember.

A dancer and a kickboxer, since age five, Brittany Pierce had joined California's Sun Blast Gym in the hopes that if she expanded her martial arts repertoire, the UFC would one day sign her to their one-hundred-and-twenty-five-pound Women's Flyweight division.

It'd been a great plan. One that had been working out well... until Sun Blast's renowned boxing coach, Santana Lopez, had begun picking apart her boxing technique in the most tactless – and public – way possible. The ruthless critiques had bordered on mocking in Brittany's mind, which she hadn't appreciated after years of being mocked for her unique outlook on the world in high school.

The tall blonde, wary of the brash toffee-skinned coach, had watched Santana over a period of months. She'd marveled at the attractive latina's knowledge with half her mind, and loathed her rude blunt attitude with the other, biting her tongue in the between.

Then came _that_ day.

_All heart, grunts, and force, Cody dug several combinations into the heavy bag, his soaked tufts of hair lifting with every explosive punch and spraying the surrounding floor with fine beads of sweat._

_Santana clicked her tongue at the growing moisture. But much more offensive was Cody's boxing technique which, in her estimation, was a blatant mockery of the sweet science. "You sure you've boxed before, pussy?" she jeered on her way past him._

_And she would have kept walking... had Cody not been stupid enough to talk back._

_He dropped his hands and threw an arm around the swaying bag, hugging it to his torso until it stilled. "What did you say?" he panted._

_A dark smirk captured the latina's features. She whirled around and stalked towards the spent man. "Whoever coached your amateur boxing career fucked you up with some terrible habits you're now gonna have to unlearn. One: your stance is all wrong. Two: you're looping your arms and overextending on your shots. Three: you're not sitting down on your punches. It might sound good when you hit this thing," she said, slinging a thumb in the bag's direction, "but there ain't shit on your shots and you look like an idiot. Any questions?"_

_Brittany, who was stood off to the side talking to her sparring partner as they both gloved-up, wasn't the only fighter whose attention had been piqued by the loud berating. Around the gym legs slowed on exercise bikes, grappling stalled, sneakers stuttered over jump ropes, and sparring ceased altogether._

_Brittany briefly glanced towards the escalating debacle, half in her conversation with Sarah and half out. "Yeah – you know what?" She shook her head, eyes pinching shut for just a second before they snapped open and darted towards the heavy bag area with renewed fire. "I'm sorry – I just, I'm done biting my tongue."_

_And off she went._

_Sarah's eyes widened. "Britt?"_

_Brittany hopped through the boxing ring's ropes and snapped her fingers; hard, loud, and impatient. "Lopez! Get your ass in here and let's go!" she demanded, pacing back and forth on fired-up legs that still managed to look graceful._

_The echoed bark turned Santana's head, her attention racing towards the woman who was... calling her out? She clutched her stomach on an uproarious outpouring of laughter – then deadpanned, her glare deadly. "Yeah, you don't wants it with me sunshine. You need to stand down afores you get hurt."_

_Brittany walked right up to the ropes and peered down at her target. She pointed a firm finger down at the ring's floor. "Get. Your ass. In here."_

_Gym members and coaches alike gathered around the rapidly developing situation, many wearing entertained grins. There were a few people, however, who were trying to de-escalate the tension. One of them Quinn, who sent an over-it, "come on, Britt. This is stupid," up at the pacing blonde. "Get out of the ring."_

_"Stay outta this Q. We're gonna throw down." Brittany planted her feet and extended both arms outwards as if to invite the latina. "Lopez, where you at? Unless I give you an attitude adjustment, you're gonna keep being a bitch. So let's settle this today!"_

_The usually jovial kickboxer had a point, Quinn internally conceded. This wasn't the first in-gym rivalry ever recorded in history and it wasn't going to be the last. The beautiful thing about them was that gym members who took issue with each other could beat each other silly, work out their frustrations, and then – in most cases –hug it out once bruised and exhausted. If they were going to settle their differences at all, this was probably how it was going to happen._

_The problem was: Quinn didn't want to see her two friends punching chunks out of one another. So she voiced that. "I'm not cool with you two fucking each other up. I'm gonna be the one you guys expect to push you around in matching wheelchairs afterward."_

_"No," Santana objected, tugging her arm free of someone's restrictive clasp and shrugging another's hand from her shoulder. "Sunshine wants to get popped; she can get popped." She pulled Cody's gloves off of his hands and fitted her own with them. They were a little roomy. But, in short, she didn't give a fuck._

_Quinn rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. She looked to Evan for help, who just shrugged and sagely foretold, "this was always going to happen. They'll be best friends after, you watch."_

_"Thanks for nothing," she griped._

_The moment Santana slipped into the ring Brittany walked up on her; nose to nose, eye to eye. Woman to woman – breath kissing each other's faces. The boxing specialist had always known that Brittany was beautiful; God had blessed her with sight after all. But up close and personal? She was a stunning picture, her cat-like eyes two clear sapphire gems that were billowing an alluring quiet fury. But that wasn't about to save her from taking this ass-whooping._

_Santana splayed her arms out to the sides, palms up, like the ring was her house and Brittany: a mere guest. "What d'you wanna do, sunshine? We straight boxing or kickboxing?"_

_"Screw just boxing. You're gonna feel my kicks."_

"Man," Santana breathed out. She rubbed her tongue along the partial crown that her dentist had fitted shortly after the incident. "We must've gone like ten rounds that day."

"And twelve rounds that night," Brittany husked as she opened rich blue eyes to peer sensuality up at her girlfriend, who smirked pure filth back. "Hey there, sexy," the very much now alert blonde chirped.

"Hey beautiful. How you doin' down there?"

Brittany winked. "The closer I am to the golden snix the happier I am, so I'm doing pretty well."

Quinn winced, having overheard the couple calling each other's sex novelty names in the past. "The golden snix," she echoed to herself on a disgusted shudder. "You two are a mess."

The true mess had been Santana's black and blue trunk after she'd gotten done hard-sparring Brittany that day, which Brittany still felt a little shitty about at times, especially when her part-time job as a nurse confronted her with victims of domestic battery. But she'd kissed and caressed the pain into submission like a certified doctor that night, murmuring sweet nothings into Santana's bare breast as her lithe fingers curled inside of the bucking latina.

"It's crazy, now, to think that we hit each other that hard. I'm sorry about the bruising and your tooth," Brittany apologized for the umpteenth time, lips threatening a childlike pout.

"Hey, I was being an asshole and I shouldn't have agreed to kickbox with a veteran kickboxer. And," Santana sighed, settling on a rueful smile, "it's not like I didn't give you two black eyes. But!" she stressed with renewed optimism, "we shouldn't dwell on that, babe, 'cause all we've done is love and take care of each other since, right?"

Brittany rolled onto her back, reaching a finger up to ghost its tip down her fiancée's nose. "Love you S-bear."

Santana kissed the pad of her finger and pressed it to Brittany's lips. "I love you too, B."

Quinn quietly bestowed upon her best friends an affectionate smile. Perhaps one day, if lucky, she might experience a love as satisfying as theirs seemed to be.

"Hm. Santana Lopez was tuned into our live video just now," Rachel mentioned as she returned her phone to the glass table. "Spying for Quinn perhaps?" she theorized, sitting back in her seat and lapping one leg over the other.

"Maybe," Noah mumbled through a mouthful of premium macadamia nuts, which saw Rachel make a slightly disgusted face.

"You really should watch your weight between fight camps, Noah." She snagged the macadamia packet and inspected the calorie content. "These things are full of fat. If you pile on the pounds now, it's only going to make it harder to get down to one-eighty-five for your next fight."

Noah huffed out a gruff sigh. He tried to snatch the packet back from an anticipatory Rachel, whose strong grip easily retained it. It wasn't surprising; her wrist control game in the cage was frightening, having developed throughout her Judo days, only to improve tenfold after she'd failed to adequately control Quinn's wrists and stop the rear naked choke the first time they'd fought.

She widened the packet's mouth and held it towards Noah expectantly.

"Anybody ever tell you you're a nag?" he grumbled, dropping his handful of nuts back into the packet, which Rachel swiftly folded down and placed to the side.

"I'm merely concerned for my best friend's health."

"When I'm bulimic and have body issues, it's gonna be down to you."

"Oh hush. Save that tiger tattoo, you have the perfect body. That's not the issue here."

"I got a nutritionist now, Rach. And _you_ ain't her."

Rachel nodded. "Yes, and she'd give you the same advice I'm offering."

"But Kim would be nicer about it."

"I've had to wash your semen out of my freshly changed sheets before, after you promised not to ejaculate all over them. I think we're past me needing to be nice to" – Rachel did a double take of Noah's face – "Wait, Kim is the name of your new nutritionist?"

"Yeah. Kim Aman. Why? And you're never gonna let me forget about those sheets are you? What did you expect with what you were doin' to me?"

Rachel hummed distractedly.

After her outing with Shelby at Chateau de Belle Mange, she'd gone home and done some digging into who Quinn's date was. Shelby's theory that the dark-skinned beauty was a potential radical who was vengeful enough to keep a gun in her purse had played upon Rachel's neurosis. So, without a name to work with, she'd trawled through Quinn's Twitter and Instagram for traces of the mysterious woman, finally happening upon a picture of them both smiling over an outdoor table display of organic vegetables stacked in food prep containers, which Quinn had tagged with the woman's Instagram username.

 _Kim Aman: MMA Nutritionist_ , her profile bio had read, complete with a website link. A link that Rachel had visited, and once the professional layout and glowing testimonials had convinced her that Kim wasn't some unhinged assassin, she'd closed the website and gone about her life.

Until now.

"Where'd you go?" Noah quizzed her, like he'd been trying to get her attention for a while.

"Nowhere particularly special," Rachel replied somewhat disdainfully.

"I'm so confused. What, do you have beef with Kim or somethin'?"

Rachel brusquely swiped a few macadamia crumbs off of her jeans, her manner all business. "I went out to eat with Shelby recently. Quinn was there... with Kim. Her date."

"Oh shit!" Noah exclaimed in excited realization, all but chanting _girl fight_. "Who threw the first glass?"

"I don't appreciate your implicative tone. She got mouthy with me for no reason at all, so I put her in her place." Rachel's mouth quirked with a smug smirk. "She then got up and left Quinn sitting there alone. Really, it was heartbreaking to the magnitude of Jack's death in _Titanic_."

Noah couldn't fathom how his best friend could be so oblivious to her own motives. It was extraordinary how good the human mind was at hiding parts of itself _from_ itself, he awed.

So in his oh so Puck way he queried, "what's it gonna take to get you to admit you wanna fuck Fabray, dude?"

The blunt question met a horrified gasp. "Don't be ridiculous!"

Noah gently took Rachel's hand, something mirthful about his expression. "Look, it's okay to wanna fuck Fabray. You wouldn't be the only one. Everybody wants to. Even gay guys want her to harness up," he said, gesturing his free hand like a makeshift strap-on, "and pound that ass."

Disgusted, Rachel tore her hand out of his grasp. "I intend to beat that woman within an inch of retirement! Sleeping with her is _the_ single furthest thing from my mind!"

"You sure?"

"I'd like to talk about something else!"

"You forget that I know you, Rach. I know you're tryna keep focused – keep your emotions in order. But the pussy wants what the pussy wants." He grinned. "Now, quit all that hollerin' and accept the fact that you got a problem with my nutritionist 'cause she's probably fuckin' Fabray when you wanna be."

Rachel grabbed the sealed down packet of macadamia nuts and tossed it to Noah's lap. "Here, go crazy. Stuff your face. Just stop talking."

That last demand took Noah back to his conversation with Quinn.

 _If only to sit on her face so she can't talk_.

"Fabray totally wants to sit on your face," he blurted, to which Rachel squinted.

"Excuse me?"

"I managed to get her to have an actual convo with me at the website shoot not long ago. Your name came up."

Rachel immediately huffed. "What was said?"

Noah took on a sheepish glow that created a knot in Rachel's throat. She swallowed and exclaimed, "thanks a lot!"

"Hey, calm your tits. Nothing too major got said! I said a lot of good stuff about you actually. She asked why we broke up and –"

"So now she's digging around in my personal affairs?" Rachel shrieked. "And you! I'm not at all impressed that all she had to do was flash you her winning smile to get you to –"

"Rachel!" Noah barked. But it was futile.

"No! You traded my confidentiality in your misguided excitement over the fact that Quinn was finally giving you the time of day! She's gay! She's never going to want what you're offering!"

"It wasn't like that! She wasn't diggin' around either!" Noah shouted back, finally silencing the huffy brunette. "And if I was that cut up about not getting to fuck her, I wouldn't be tryna get you to realize that you're both obsessed with each other! Just look at your reaction; no one's ever made you act like this! Fring almost pushed Fabray over at their weigh-ins and she didn't do shit, but you as good as look at her and she's growling!"

A tense silence settled between them, wherein Rachel smoothed down her rumpled blouse and averted her gaze, which eventually found her lap.

"I'm sorry I talked about you to Quinn," Noah said after a while. "But it didn't go down like you think."

"Okay. I'm sorry for blowing up. But please respect my confidentiality in future."

"I will," Noah sighed.

"I'm not comfortable with her knowing personal things about me," Rachel began, in a tone that was much softer than her previous. "It makes me feel somewhat exposed."

"But the _Lights Out_ setup is a personal one. What d'you think she's gonna do? Sell your story to Barnes and Noble."

Rachel didn't think anything of the sort. She just knew that she'd rather Quinn not see her – the parts of her that were human and vulnerable at least. When she stepped into the octagon she needed to be built up, devoid of her humanity and ready for anything. A technically sound zoned-in machine. Impenetrable. The reason why fans championed professional fighters was because they were extraordinary warriors capable of feats that eluded the everyman. Capable of levels of courage and dedication that eluded most. That was how she needed Quinn to view her.

"Yes, the _Lights Out_ setup is a personal one," she acknowledged with a soft nod. "The idea doesn't thrill me. But I'm going to do it anyway."

* * *

If the UFC Performance Institute's sweeping lobby, with its corporate grey marble floor, LED-lit wall waterfalls, and modern angular fixtures, was any indication of the building's combat facilities, then the trip to Vegas was going to be well worth it.

"Holy shit. Maybe Berry and her fuck-boy were onto something," Santana awed, looking around.

Walking beside her, Brittany clapped her hands like she'd discovered gummy bears in her Christmas stocking. "Oh. My. _God_! I'm totally in love with this place already!"

Leading them towards a wide u-shaped reception desk, which was a sleek black with thin chrome strips running through it, Quinn murmured, "yep. This place is pretty lavish; Dana spared zero expense, huh?"

"Sure the fuck didn't," Santana consigned, peering up at the large wall portraits of historical UFC fighters. "I _gots_ to pull him aside so we can have a conversation about upping average fighter pay after seeing this. Ten grand a fight's criminal when you're only fighting two to three times a year and got coaches, agents, and gym fees to pay on top of regular bills. That's what this place is tellin' me."

"Right baby? Every other major sports league has a union to protect its athletes. It sucks that MMA still doesn't. Like, I was talking to Francesca last week. She's homeless now and living out of the gym she trains at."

"As long as you didn't tell her she could come stay with us, I'm good."

Brittany issued Santana a reproachful nudge, whose immediate line of defense was a comedic, "what? Ya'll know I ain't right."

Quinn's amusement resulted in a low-timbered cackle.

"I don't know what you're laughin' at, champ," Santana called ahead. "It's all fine and dandy for you with your championship pay rise, mainstream popularity, and your pay-per-view points. You got _Game of Thrones_ begging you to star in their next season. You'll never be Francesca."

"Good job too. It's not like I can depend on you to take me in," Quinn quipped over her shoulder.

"Superb point."

"We'd take you in, Q. Ignore Santana."

"Fine. But she's not getting a drop of my cookie butter," Santana let it be known.

They came to a stop at the swish desk, each of them hiking their bags up into securer positions on their shoulders as the uniformed lady behind it finished up a phone call.

"Hi Quinn. Brittany. Santana. How can I help?" she greeted once she'd hung up.

"Hi. We're staying here whilst I'm out here for the _Lights Out_ –"

"Of course. Say no more," the lady – Anita, as her company badge proclaimed – interrupted. She turned to the lean computer monitor and tapped its touchscreen, before procuring two room keys and three booklets that contained information regarding all that the institute had to offer; placing them on the desk.

Quinn offered a friendly smile and collected both the keys and the booklets, tossing Santana and Brittany's key over her shoulder for one of them to catch. When she heard the telling sound of metal hitting palm, she told Anita, "thanks."

"You're welcome. Take the elevator to the third floor. There's a portrait of you winning the title actually" – Anita laughed, somewhat shyly – "to the right, which will take you a corridor. Your rooms are there. If you need anything just call down, and I'll… _personally_ see that your every need is met."

Brittany and Santana shared a knowing look. They really couldn't go anywhere without bitches pooling at Quinn's feet.

The strawweight's eyebrow inched up. "Every need?" she echoed, a flirtatious lilt to her voice.

Anita swallowed hard, like her mouth was dry. "I'd love to. I-I mean, yeah. Every need," she rambled, shaking her head at her own idiocy. She then cleared her throat. "You know, there's actually a-a room where the walls are covered with portraits of key moments in your career. I can show it to you some time. Only if you want me too."

"Really? Dana didn't mention that."

"He probably wanted it to be a surprise. It was installed a little after you won the belt. You're a historical figure for women's MMA, Quinn." The receptionist shrugged a shoulder, smirking. "They couldn't not pay homage."

"Thanks for letting me know, sweetheart. I'll check that out, and I'll definitely reach out if any needs arise."

"Make sure you do," Anita told Quinn's back as she watched the three women headed towards the elevator.

"How are you getting so much pussy thrown at you on a daily basis, and yet you haven't gotten laid in like forever?" Santana asked, seeming – quite comically – annoyed.

Quinn's mind found Kim, who she hadn't spoken to since the incident at Chateau de Belle Mange. "Kim was gonna break that dry spell. But you already know what happened there," she answered, narrowing her eyes at nothing specific as she tapped the wall button next to the elevator with increasing aggression.

Unsatisfied, Santana shook her head. "No, Kim's just one woman. There are countless bitches tossing their panties at you on the daily. How come you haven't wrecked one of 'em in the back seat of your Jeep?"

"I'm always stupid busy. Also, I have to like a woman in order to sleep with her," came Quinn's simple response, the implied _unlike you_ ringing loud in the beat after.

A cynical countenance befell the latina. "Let's not act like you wouldn't tag Berry's walls given half the chance."

"I like some things about Berry," Quinn countered with ease. "I didn't say I had to be completely won over, did I? She's a pain in the ass, but I like her fight mind – the way she mixes up her attack, going high then low and then to the body, overloading her opponent's senses so that they have no idea what's coming next. She's got really high fight IQ and I like her grit."

"You like that ass is what you like."

Quinn's hand bashed the elevator button particularly hard then, and Brittany saw it as her cue to step in.

"San, quit clocking Q's pussy miles. If she wants to become a nun it's none of our business, and we should support her like she supported us that time we asked her to ask her friend if she would do a threesome with us."

That collapsed Quinn's mounting irritation. She broke a slight smirk. "I had enough of God and his weird minions throughout my childhood, B. I'm definitely not headed to a nunnery any time soon."

"Good."

The elevator doors came apart then, smooth and almost without sound, and Quinn had just been about to follow her friends inside when she heard her name.

"Quinn!" it sounded again.

She turned around, scoping out the vast floor and the few people populating it, when her gaze finally found the unlikely source.

Kim?

"I'll be up in a sec," she told both Brittany and Santana, before she walked the eight or so steps to meet the woman who'd abandoned their date.

"Hey," Kim opened with, her smile hesitant as she hugged a collection of folders to her chest.

"What are you doing here?"

"Oh," Kim began, quickly jerking a thumb over her shoulder at no one in particular. But Quinn got the idea. "Dana and co asked me to drop by. Said they needed my expertise on something regarding the nutrition floor."

Quinn ducked her head into a slow nod, following it up with stony silence.

Kim let all pretenses go with her sudden sigh. "Look –"

"I don't like being abandoned mid-date and then left to eat alone like an asshole," Quinn unleashed, though it was contained – tight and snippy, just the way her mother would snap at her in public when she was a kid.

Kim thrust a hand to her hip, not about to back down. "Really? Because –"

"Yeah really," Quinn needlessly asserted, just to be a bitch.

"Good, because I don't like being out on a date with someone I really like, only to discover that she's into someone else."

"I'm not. I wasn't."

"Please, Quinn, don't insult my intelligence."

Quinn thought about further protesting, but she knew. She knew exactly what the beauty stood before her was referring to. Her lips pursed, unsure of what to say.

"That's why I bolted. Not because of Berry. But because of how _you_ were. I felt it – whatever's going on between you two. It's more than you just wanting to beat her again."

Quinn ran her tongue along her two front teeth and looked off, anywhere but at the wonderful woman who she'd looked to do wrong by. She awkwardly adjusted the beak of her snapback.

"I'm sorry," she eventually said. "I do like you. A lot," she offered, which even to her own ears sounded lame.

"Stop right there. You don't need to do that. We tried, it didn't work out, and that's fine."

"Is it?"

"Sure." Kim took Quinn's hand and gently squeezed it once, dropping it a beat later. "If I'm right about you two then you should probably do something about all that sexual tension. All entangled with the competitiveness of your rivalry in the cage? It's... wow." She blew out a powerful breath, needing to expel the enormity. "It's suffocating."

Quinn's lips pulled into a thin tight smile.

"You're not all that thrilled about your attraction to her are you?"

"Honestly? I kind of can't stand her."

Kim laughed. "I kinda think she likes that."

"No, I know. She probably thinks getting under my skin will make me charge at her with reckless abandon the next time we fight, which" – Quinn shook her head gravely – "just isn't gonna happen. The higher the stakes the more calculated I get. She's evolved a lot since our last fight; I know I need to be careful. Nothing she says is gonna stop the methodical slow-cooking I have planned for her."

"No, I..." Kim paused and pondered how to best word what she wanted to say. She finally threw a careless hand up and just said it: "I mean I think she likes rattling your cage – like in a foreplay kinda way."

Quinn scoffed, eyes flat and cynical. "That's a stretch."

"Hey, when I talk about that something between you two, I'm talking on both ends. I saw how she behaved at that restaurant. It's more than one-upmanship. She was going above and beyond to get to you. It's like she gets off on being in here," Kim elaborated, tapping a demonstrative finger to Quinn's temple.

"Anything's possible, but I doubt it. She's an amazingly talented fighter. But she's weak, and that's why she needs to get under my skin. It's not about foreplay. It's desperation driven by insecurity."

"I'm not her biggest fan after what happened, but weak isn't a word I'd associate with Rachel Berry; I saw her last fight."

"Physically she's farmer strong," Quinn clarified. "I'm talking about her mind."

"Okay," Kim nodded, now getting it. "I have to head off. You know how Dana gets when he's irritated; it's fuck this and fuck that. But, really, good luck getting the girl."

"You're kidding right? If she's interested, she's the one who's gonna need luck landing me."

Kim smiled, amused. "And the plot thickens."

* * *

The light training regime that both Rachel's doctor and head coach had prescribed didn't include sparring or grappling other people. Not yet at least.

Though she'd enjoyed that naughty Judo session last week she'd risked exacerbating her ligament tear, having fought to juggle her instinctual competitive nature with her body's need for her to pull back. On top of that, she'd had to be selective of her grappling partners, since it wasn't uncommon for training partners to try to injure each other due to jealousy over career successes. Rachel had been successful in finding the balance that day, but she was done playing roulette, which was why she'd made the decision to steer clear of the UFC Performance Institute's grand MMA floor. She would go and take a look at the technologically advanced striking and grappling zones – as well as the boxing ring and octagon cage – before flying home, just to say that she'd seen them.

Until then she intended to frequent the performance optimization floor which, according to the information booklet, was equipped with a hydrotherapy area, an Olympic caliber strength and conditioning room, a recovery suite, nutrition consultation, and a large outdoor multi-purpose area.

Once she'd settled her belongings amongst the fixtures of her luxurious room, she'd parted ways with Noah – who hadn't bothered to unpack in his fervor to visit the MMA floor – and followed the information booklet's directions to the multi-purpose outdoor area in the hopes of breaking a light sweat. The slight jet lag wouldn't permit anything more vigorous than a tepid run.

She was sat astride a padded leatherette steel bench, her maroon Reebok sneakers neatly placed to the side as a trained staff member carefully wound a support bandage around her ankle.

"That feel okay?" he asked once finished, to which she rolled the joint experimentally and smiled her gratitude.

"It's perfect. Thank you so much."

"You're very welcome; I'm a huge fan." Smiling, the man pushed up from his one knee and hurried off to assist the athletes who were wielding sledgehammers above their heads and slamming them into thick monster truck tires in what was a common endurance exercise in MMA circles.

Rachel quietly smiled to herself whilst slipping her feet back into her sneakers. This was a shockingly beautiful facility – a free one-stop shop for her and her fellow athletes. The atmosphere was one of modern minimalist luxury, professional hospitality, and camaraderie –and the food had utterly romanced her senses when she'd passed by the café.

"I could certainly get used to this," she muttered on a content exhalation of breath.

"Talking to yourself because nobody else will?"

Rachel briefly halted; she'd know that suave, slightly raspy cadence anywhere. She peered up to see Quinn standing over her, the sun winking through vivid blue skies behind her lean athletic form.

"Oh but _you're_ talking to me," Rachel shot back.

"Barely," Quinn sneered.

"If only. But since you're here, I understand that you had a conversation with Noah pertaining to our past relationship – or rather why it came to a close. I'd appreciate it if you kept your nose out of my personal affairs. You're free to run along now."

If Quinn hadn't developed such impeccable balance over the years, the hypocrisy of Rachel's request might have knocked her on her ass. There was no way that this woman was for real. "Oh, I see," she rationalized. "You've got jokes, Rachel."

"I don't joke when it comes to you, Quinn. In fact –" Rachel's train of thought skidded to a halt as she registered the smooth husky pronunciation of her name instead of the usual sharp and disdainful _Berry_.

"What's the matter? All the bullshit you fill your own head with poisoning you from the inside out? Or did you finally get tired of hearing your own voice?"

Rachel stood up. She was close enough to see the subtle cleft in Quinn's pale chin, the fascinating arrangement of her perfect features. Close enough to see the intricate myriad of colors that comprised those golden-green irises, their inner layers somehow brimming amber hues. She was so beautiful it was surreal, even as she arched a catty eyebrow and said: "Oh, so this is what we're doing now? You wanna square up? What are you gonna do, sweet cheeks?"

"I'm simply levelling the playing field. You're standing. I see no reason why I shouldn't too –"

"I'm sorry," Quinn cut in with a quick shake of the head, clearly not sorry at all, "but how exactly are you telling me to stay out of your personal affairs – like I give a shit to begin with – after the personal attacks you've launched on me?"

Rachel drew her lips up to one side in feigned thought. "I kind of – what's the phrase I'm reaching for? Oh that's right! – don't have to explain myself to you, Quinn." She smiled, making it sickly sweet, even batting a lash or two as she clapped her hands together once. "So if you're finished, I'm going to run some laps on this beautifully cultivated track. You have yourself a lovely afternoon."

On the tip of Quinn's tongue rested a vicious comment about how the smug brunette had driven Puck into the arms of not just one woman but two. But she ended up swallowing it in begrudging loyalty to the juvenile middleweight champion.

"Finished?" she instead coolly asked, hot on Rachel's brisk heels. "Sweetheart, I'm only just warming up."

"I'm not your sweetheart. No matter how desperately you may want me to be."

A laugh much too melodic to be sincere fluttered from Quinn. "You do know I only wanted sex from you right? The way you're talking, you'd think I dropped to one knee for your hand in marriage."

Rachel's sneakers picked up, carrying her into a light nonchalant jog along the track. And so did Quinn's.

"I don't care what you wanted from me Quinn. The point is: you never got it and as a result you're saltier than four day old semen."

Quinn mock gasped. "You think of that all on your own?"

"Being friends with Noah has its perks; clever isn't it?"

"You might be a wise-ass but what you're doing's far from clever. See, this little game you're playing right now?" Quinn gestured between them. "It's shockingly transparent and it's not gonna help you in the cage."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"It's only making me more focused," Quinn persisted, sensing hesitation in Rachel's previously smooth rhythm. She smiled, spurred on. "I feel nothing when I'm in that cage. You'll be just another faceless body with targets on it, and the mind game attempts will all have been for nothing. I just want you to know that."

Swallowing hard, but keeping a flawless poker face, Rachel picked up speed.

As did Quinn.

"You talk smack just as much as I do, Quinn. The accuser is often guilty of the very thing they're charging others with. Is this an indirect admission on your part?" Rachel quickly spun it around. "If so I just want _you_ to know: your attempts to rattle me aren't going to work."

"Sweetie, I don't need to make my opponents crazy to get them to make mistakes. My skills are my skills and they more than speak for themselves."

"So do mine!" When she was composed enough to execute them, at least.

"If you believed that you wouldn't be trying so hard to throw me off my game which, again, isn't gonna happen. You're forgetting that I've experienced your pre-fight conduct before. Sure, we weren't friendly thanks to your twisted reaction to my interest in you, but you were respectful. You also didn't come at any of your other opponents like you are me now, which means you're rattled this time. And I don't blame you."

Rachel hadn't been drawn to any of those other opponents like she was Quinn. With those opponents, she didn't have to worry about her inner fan jeopardizing her ability to go out there and pull the trigger. She'd been able to dissect those women with surgical precision and crafty technique, one after the other. But she hadn't been able to do that to Quinn; she'd choked under the enormity of who Quinn was. She'd choked in response to the parts of herself that adored the blonde for all that she'd done in her career.

She'd choked. Something that had never happened to her on the stage.

As well as teaching her that she'd needed to tighten up other areas of her game, the loss to Quinn had taught her that emotional attachments were a grave detriment to her otherwise sniper-like killer instincts, and that the problem needed to be corrected.

She'd considered seeing a sports psychologist after the shattering experience, those around her gently encouraging it. But ultimately she'd failed to make that phone call, afraid that admitting her weaknesses and anxieties aloud would somehow further embed doubt.

But she was never going to say any of that. Especially not to Quinn.

"As unfathomable as this may seem to you, have you ever considered that I'm not at all rattled – that maybe I just don't like you?" Rachel challenged.

"More than ever recently, I've considered this: I think you know you need all the help you can get. So whilst you exert all your energy thinking up ways to get under my skin I'm sitting pretty, secure in the knowledge that you're doubting yourself. See how that works?"

Huffing to an abrupt stop, Rachel tore around, Quinn's sharp reflexes the only thing to stop them both colliding. They were close again. Closer than ever; neither woman willing to take a backwards step. Rachel's hard stare darted all over Quinn's cool expression, her tan jaw constricting; her temples pulsing. She could feel herself unravelling in the face of the almost tangible force that was Quinn's certainty.

"Oh – is that silence I hear? I thought you were incapable," Quinn needled.

"Let me make one thing clear: I intend to retire you in our next fight. Either through irreparable injury or embarrassment, I will retire you Quinn. That is the level of certainty I have when it comes to my skills! Take that _Game Of Thrones_ role and put some money away, because your next fight will be your last!"

Capturing a subtle smirk, Quinn slowly leaned her cheek past Rachel's until pink lips were inches from the brunette's ear. "The aroma of your desperation is incredibly erotic, sweet cheeks. I love it. Keep talking dirty to me," she whispered, lingering there for a long beat... before she slowly drew back to see that Rachel's lips were slightly parted – the brunette suddenly rousing from her daze and dragging in a quick recovering breath on a stuttered blink.

Quinn's eyebrows pinched together in slight frown. She – wait – she knew that look. She'd reduced enough women to that look to be certain of what it meant – that Rachel Berry was... aroused. Her pale brow smoothed over then, and a knowing smirk became her because Santana had read the Berry situation _all_ wrong.

And for the longest time so had she.

Oblivious to her leaky body language, Rachel was still reeling. The deep velvety tones of Quinn's mocking utterance, accompanied by the sweet sensual perfume that hung around her skin, had settled in waves of warmth in Rachel's lower stomach.

She felt her inner walls clench without her say so.

She felt out of herself.

Out of herself as her hands shot out and shoved Quinn away, who bared her teeth on her small stumble back, all set to drive forward in retaliation – when strong hands encircled her waist from behind, lifted her, and spun her around, away from Rachel.

"Hey! Quinn! Stop! This isn't the place!"

"Let me go!" Quinn said, cool but firm, like a threat.

"Calm down!"

Quinn had completely relaxed in the man's arms the moment that she'd felt her feet whisked from the ground, knowing that his impossible strength would've nullified any attempt to struggle free. "I am calm," she claimed, even-toned. "Now let me go. I'm not going to do anything."

With her hands on her hips, Rachel bounced her gaze around like shame had stolen her ability to focus upon any one thing. She then sniffed away her mortification, pursed her lips, and swallowed her pride – though she lifted her chin, strong in her conviction. "I apologize," she offered the tank-like security guy. "I apologize to you too Quinn. I don't condone violence outside of the sport and I never have. I... don't know what came over me."

Except she did know. Quinn's sensuality, despite the malice in which it was delivered, had come over her. It'd come over her like a tsunami, and like those who'd – in their utter panic – shot bullets at Hurricane Irma, she too had acted irrationally.

The apology saw the guard's grip loosen, so Quinn grabbed his wrists and flung them apart, stepping around him to where she was face to face with Rachel again, who... actually seemed remorseful in a... slightly reluctant sort of way, Quinn reasoned, her eyes scanning Rachel's features for sarcasm and smug amusement that wasn't there.

"Hey, not so close," the guard advised. "I don't wanna have to remove you from the facility."

"Get the fuck out of my face and don't touch me again," Quinn told him, casual in her delivery and not even looking his way, to which he released a bored unfazed sigh.

"Despite your very deliberate provocation, the manner in which I responded was unacceptable. It won't happen again," Rachel spoke up, unable to decipher the intense look that Quinn was giving her. She battled the urge to speak again or look away, needing to meet everything that the blonde had to offer head on. Needing to prove that she could to them both.

"I know it won't happen again," Quinn threatened after a while.

"It won't," Rachel countered. "Now I'd like an apology for your salacious conduct just now! That was also unacceptable!"

"That stuff you pulled at the restaurant was unacceptable too and" – Quinn shrugged a shoulder –"I'm petty enough to keep score and wait for opportunities to get you back. So, are we gonna keep going tit for tat, or are we gonna squash the pointless personal attacks? Because believe me short stack, they _are_ pointless."

"I'm still awaiting my apology, Quinn."

"Uh-uh." Quin shook her head from side to side and regarded the staunch brunette through her eyelashes, almost seductive. "I'm not sorry. I meant every word."

The security guy rolled his eyes; he'd thought that they'd been about to squash their dispute. "Ladies, can we –"

"Zip it!" Rachel snapped at him, immediately looking back to Quinn. "You, Quinn Fabray, need to learn to know when women are attracted to you versus when they're not, and then act accordingly!"

The irony of that statement, now that Quinn had gleaned what she'd gleaned, was laughable.

"I initially came up here to get a workout in. So I'm going to do that now. But first I want you to know this…" Quinn paused to smile. "I know your secret identity. Now _you_ have _yourself_ a lovely afternoon."

* * *

**Tell me what you thought.**


	6. Chapter Six

**This chapter was a quite a bit longer than this, but I feel like I have more to add to what follows directly on from this. But at least we got them to the _Lights Out_ set this chapter lol. I want to thank everyone who is enjoying this and those that take the time to leave comments. **

**I was also made aware that a reader promoted this fic on poetzproblem’s blog. Thank you! It’s lovely to know that people feel so passionate about this story.**

 

Chapter Six

 

"What's wrong? You seem distracted?"

Jesse's voice, fraught with concern, brought Rachel back from her rapt study of the television. It was hooked up to a digital box that was pre-loaded with every UFC fight ever televised, and she'd spent all yesterday evening, as well as the better half of the morning, pulling up Quinn's fights and picking them apart for strengths, tendencies, and weaknesses.

The notepad that lay on the bed beside her phone was full of messy scrawl, equations for executing effective violence inking page after page like that of a mathematician's blackboard.

_She moves her head off the center line when slipping jabs that come straight down the middle, usually moving head to the right. Also times opponents, choosing exact moment that they're going to throw strikes to push kick them away and upset their rhythm and balance_ , Rachel fiendishly wrote, following it up with: _Briefly lowers hands and leaves chin exposed when bringing elbow down to her ribs to protect against body shots/kicks_.

"Am I having a conversation with myself here?"

Rachel pressed the pen's tip into the page, marking the last sentence with a period before she picked up her phone, deactivated loud speaker, and brought it to her ear. "No, I'm here."

"What are you doing?"

Rachel looked to the TV screen. "I'm studying tape on Fabray."

"Wouldn't that be more practical once the contracts have been signed and the fight's actually been made?"

"Jesse, the fight is as good as made. The only thing left to do is sign the contract once I'm cleared to compete."

"Rachel," Jesse began, a sobering way about him, "you know what this business is like; don't be willfully naive."

"What am I doing out here promoting this fight if indeed it's not next in line?"

A beat of silence that spiked an anxious heat in Rachel's stomach played between them. Then: "I awoke this morning and visited several MMA blogs, and then I visited several official sources for validation."

Rachel blinked a couple times. "Validation?"

"Flyweight's Karrina Steel called Fabray out. She wants Quinn to go up to one-hundred-and-twenty-five pounds so that they can have the champion versus champion fight everyone's been fantasizing about."

Rachel shook her head, adamant. "Quinn is not going to accept that fight! The meritocracy of the ranking system is important to her. She's going to want to defend the strawweight belt at least once before taking a novelty fight!"

"The UFC only cares about making money and –"

"The biggest fight possible for Quinn right now _is_ me!" Rachel interjected, jerking a thumb back at her chest hard enough to leave a mark.

"Actually Steel is. They might not have the rivalry that you two do, but fans have been requesting that they fight for a long time. They both hold the belt in their respective divisions now; Fabray probably likes the idea of being the first female martial artist to hold two belts at once, and the UFC is always pulling for the spectacle and the bigger payday. They're going to want Fabray to say yes, especially since you aren't cleared to fight yet."

Rachel shot her slow-healing foot a displeased look and puffed free a gruff sigh. "I cannot believe this!"

"Don't panic. Quinn has to accept the fight first and matchmaker, Sean Shelby, has to oversee it. I'll keep an eye on it. Now," Jesse stated with renewed pragmatism, "the sports psychologist you asked me to look into for you: it was difficult as it was last minute, but I booked you in for one this afternoon. If you would like to continue working with him once you return to California, they facilitate Skype sessions. Then at two you're scheduled to be on the _Lights Out_ set. Any questions?"

_Yes. Why are you being so blasé about this?_

Rachel's grip tightened around her phone. "A-Any questions? Shouldn't I be asking you that?" she asked, sheepish.

She'd paced her room back and forth last night, all furrow-browed and jittery, as she'd sent Jesse the text.

_Would it be at all possible that you could find me a local sports psychologist and book me an appointment for tomorrow? X_

It had been a sore point during the last few breaths of their relationship – Jesse begging her to go and see someone so that she could work through her unhealthy obsession with training. So that she could work through the things that were bleeding out into their relationship; a crimson ocean that had grown too voluminous to cross. He'd believed that a sports psychologist was the key to getting their romance back on track. But Rachel had refused the idea, and with her refusal she'd sent the painfully clear message – at least in his mind – that he wasn't important enough to her for her to take that step.

And now, suddenly, she was ready.

"I'm not going to pretend it doesn't bring up some feelings," he admitted, the formal manager gone, but not too far away. "But that's not important. I'm your manager, so I'm managing."

"You're my friend too," Rachel threw out there, something hopeful about it, to which Jesse smiled somewhat wistfully.

"Of course. But if I may ask, what instigated the sudden change of heart?"

Rachel grimaced as her mind returned her to the incident that had taken place with Quinn yesterday afternoon. She'd acted completely out of character – had felt out of herself, and it had unsettled the notion that her approach to this second Fabray fight was the correct one. Her body had reacted to the strawweight champion like a puppet on a string – aroused one moment yet combative the next.

It wasn't practical, and it certainly wasn't behavior indicative of a championship caliber athlete.

So, she'd headed back to her room and made the resolute decision that she would do what she should have done after that first loss.

"It's not something that I'd like to go into at the moment, but I was involved in a small incident with Quinn yesterday. I decided that enough was enough – that it was time to... tackle some of my issues," Rachel murmured.

"Okay."

"Okay?" Rachel asked, insecure.

"Okay," Jesse reiterated with a little more pep. "I'm happy you're taking this step. We all must do what’s best when we're ready. And if you'd like to talk about the session once it's complete, don't hesitate to get in contact."

It felt physical, the way that the weight left Rachel's shoulders. She smiled a sad but grateful smile. "I really am sorry about how things turned –"

"Let's not rehash past lives. I've forgiven you. You should too."

* * *

 

"What are you looking so pleased about?" Santana asked, a suspicious but intrigued squint to her eye as she shoveled a spoonful of granola cereal into her mouth and crunched.

Quinn, sat opposite her before a bowl of bananas, dates, granola, and almond milk, shrugged like the latina must have been imagining things. But her smirk said different.

"Eh, is that the strawweight champ I see? What up ladies?" UFC top ten lightweight contender, Kevin Lee, greeted them as he weaved between the expansive café's tables on his way to the exit.

"Hi," Quinn replied with a smile.

The Motown Phenomenon, as per his cage nickname, winked, his light brown skin, crisp haircut, clean urban dress, and model looks wasted on Quinn. Not that that had ever stopped him from trying to coax her gaze his way. 

Santana rolled her eyes – then they suddenly widened. "Fuck; you banged the receptionist didn't you?" She brought her hand down hard on the table as if the game was over, riddle solved.

Quinn shook her head, smirking silently whilst she chewed. She was cute like how people were during unremarkable moments, Santana thought, but no less annoying. "If you didn't bang the receptionist what's with the glow? I'ma need you to use actual words."

"I don't have a glow. This is just my face. Sorry to break it to you."

"Sorry to break it to you, Q, but you're kind of the brooding type. Between the serial killer book collection, the staring through people like you're about to haunt their dreams, and the quiet intensity, I was always gonna pick up on..." Santana gestured across the table at all that was Quinn. "This."

"One or two books aren’t a collection, miss exaggeration. It's interesting to know what makes people dark though. You learn a lot reading about the darkness of others."

"Sure."

"Go fuck yourself," Quinn sang before another spoonful found her mouth.

"B and I are gonna buy you some rom-com books."

"There's nothing to learn from those."

Santana shrugged a shoulder in silent concurrence. "B and I wanna hit the casinos and maybe a few strip clubs today. What's your schedule lookin' like, miss cryptic smirk?"

Quinn pulled her phone from her purse, which was sat atop the table. She tapped the screen, swallowed her bite, and said, "I have to be on set by two." She slipped the device back into her purse. "I'm gonna grab a training session before that though. I'll slot that in after Anita, the lovely receptionist, shows me around this room that's supposed to be a shrine to my career."

"So _that's_ why you're so pleased with yourself. On the scale of one to narcissist, fucking some chick in a room that has your face everywhere has gotta be at the top. I'm completely here for it."

"Sex before training's always been a no-no for me. Orgasms are a sure path to fatigue and a shitty workout."

"Fatigue makes cowards of men, that's for sure." Santana flicked her hand in a dismissive gesture. "No problem, just invite her up to your room later tonight, 'cause if anyone's desperate for your autograph it's that bitch."

"We'll see how lively I am after the _Lights Out_ shoot."

She was tired right this moment. Tired and hoping that a good morning workout would see all of her cylinders firing, like morning sessions usually did. Tired because the night before had seen her eyelids fall at around three-am.

She couldn't say why but after the incident with Rachel, she'd felt compelled to go to YouTube and do something that she'd never allowed herself to do before, which was seek out some of the brunette's Broadway performances. The authenticity of Rachel's acting had been startling to her but not unexpected – her ability to portray vastly different roles, like it was nothing to cry on demand or embody the spirit of rage even whilst in song. Even whilst dancing. Quinn had looked upon the charismatic, touching, and deft performances like she did her books: with a studious mind and rapt fascination, wondering which parts of Rachel's characters actually belonged to Rachel. Which parts were pure farce? She hadn't known when she'd fallen asleep, but she'd fallen to the sound of Rachel's powerful, siren-esque, once in a lifetime voice.

There were worse ways to drift off. Much worse ways.

"There goes that smirk again," Santana pointed out, the contagion of it causing her own lips to turn up at the corners. "You pumped about Steel's callout? You thinkin' about that payday? Is that it?"

"It's definitely an interesting option that I'm considering," was all Quinn said.

"Like getting blood from a stone today," Santana complained.

"She called me out. That means she thinks I'm an easy win. I'm taking that as an insult, and she's going to pay for that insult in championship gold. It's just a matter of when." Quinn granted the latina a cloying smile then, and asked, "happy now?"

"I can't stand you."

Quinn laughed. "What's with the women in my life acting like they can't stand me when the opposite's true?"

Predictably, Santana scoffed. "I don't know who these women you're referring to are, but I know you ain't talkin' about me 'cause I only stick around for those large pay checks you write."

Quinn lips rode up to facilitate a smug toothy grin. "Berry," she said.

"Berry?"

"Rachel," Quinn elaborated.

"Of course it'd be about her. What about her?"

"Seems she isn't immune to my feminine wiles after all."

Santana frowned, confused. "Huh?"

"I'm telling you that the attraction's mutual. It's not like I plan on doing anything about it. But it's nice to know that the effort I put into my appearance is... appreciated."

Familiar cynicism colored Santana's expression. "This again?"

"I spent my teens sharing a locker room with beautiful girls who I never let myself stare at for longer than four seconds; if anyone knows reluctant lust when she sees it, it's me."

"How come you haven't spotted it before then?"

"It's not like Berry and I spend lots of time together... in person. How was I supposed to pick up on it?"

Santana laughed darkly. "I love how you tagged, 'in person,' on the end, 'cause before now you've spent entire rest days going back and forth with that bitch on Twitter."

"Time well spent. Because of those tweets fans are gonna hand over seventy-five dollars or more a piece to watch us fight again." Quinn smiled. "We all win."

"Except when you lose 'cause you think the troll is into you when she's not."

"I didn't say she was into me," Quinn corrected the latina, somewhat snippy. "I said that the attraction was mutual."

"Between embarrassing you in the media, picking fights with you on Instagram posts, and fleeing when you ask her to dinner, how can you tell?"

Quinn rolled her eyes and scooped half a date onto her spoon, willing to let the topic go. If Santana didn't buy it she didn't have to. But she hadn't been there to witness that look that Rachel had given her.

And maybe Rachel's hostile behavior _was_ some kind of twisted foreplay; she struck Quinn as the closet kinky type, all uptight and detail oriented. Those were the ones who were wild beneath you. The most fun. The ones who got off on throwing their everyday caution to the wind, suppressed lust rupturing order to spearhead wanton hands, lips, teeth, and risqé acts.

Maybe it wasn't foreplay at all, Quinn had to remind herself.

Maybe Rachel _was_ just rattled about their imminent fight. Perhaps it was some kind of combination. But with the acting chops on the brunette, who knew?

Quinn didn't. She just knew she liked knowing that Rachel was susceptible to her the way that she was susceptible to Rachel – that she wasn't alone in her attraction.

She went to smirk to herself, but she already was.

* * *

 

Rachel closed her room door and locked it, adjusting her sunglasses and scarf as she walked the immaculate corridor. The distant ambiance of muffled chatter and human bustle fell away to loud persistent thoughts.

She was on her way to see a sports psychologist!

The hours she'd spent Googling standard session procedure had amounted to little information. Every client had different needs, and thus every procedure was different. Rachel didn't know what to expect, and though she presented a casual exterior as she rounded the hallway's corner, she was –

"It's my favorite room! By far the most beautiful room! But then you've seen mirrors before, so I'm sure you already know."

"I know all the imperfections, sure."

"Quinn Fabray and imperfection in the same sentence? That's got to be the oxymoron of all oxymorons. Come on, let me show you the shrine. Just to warn you, I'm probably gonna fan-out."

"That's fine. But no fainting."

"I'll try to fall to the side or something, and not actually on you."

"I was kidding."

"Me too. I'm definitely going to fall on you."

The flirty voice, along with Quinn's, slowed Rachel's gait. She stepped back but barely poked her head around the corner, watching Quinn with the receptionist who'd greeted both her and Noah when they'd arrived at the facility. The woman certainly had hospitality on her mind, though it wasn't the professional kind, Rachel deduced from the way that the woman was fixated on Quinn. The way that she glanced left and right, preened her auburn bangs, and then trailed Quinn into the room that they'd been stood outside of, door slamming shut behind them.

The forceful sound acted as a claxon to the monsoon of lewd images that suddenly assaulted Rachel's mind. Her expression fell stern.

Like breathing she didn't even think about it; she was at the door in seconds, cranking down the handle and shoulder nudging her way in.

"I certainly hope that I'm not interrupting anything, but I couldn't help but overhear all the gushing! I thought I'd invite myself along to see what all the fuss was about!" she announced, loud and overly chirpy, like the bucket of ice water thrown on slumbering forms that she'd intended it to be.

And it was effective, because the receptionist took what appeared to be an abrupt step away from Quinn, awkwardly clearing her throat. "O-Of course you're not interrupting anything, Rachel," she claimed, pointing at one image with flimsy professionalism. Again she cleared her throat. "As I was saying, Quinn, this here is um, when you became the first female fighter ever to get an opponent to tap to strikes."

"I remember," Quinn said to satiate Anita's need for a response, but she'd been looking at Rachel the entire time, lost in the novel charm that was Rachel's bright orange beanie hat and largely-framed tinted sunglasses. A poor attempt at an incognito outfit, Quinn guessed, which somehow only increased its charm.

But Rachel wasn't here to be charming. If her antagonistic chipper entrance had meant anything at all, Quinn thought, it meant that she was probably looking to get back the verbal loss that she'd taken on the outdoor track yesterday.

And Quinn, now that she knew that Rachel was fallible to her, was more than game.

She gestured a sweeping hand around the room – at the tastefully placed _Ice Queen_ branded memorabilia; mugs, hoodies, and old fight gear that she'd worn throughout her career. "So, Rachel, as a self-confessed fan of mine who – what did you text me before the Fring fight again? Oh yeah! – respects the legacy that I've built, what do you think? Does this do my legacy justice?"

Rachel's stomach rolled. She didn't think she'd ever get used to Quinn calling her by her forename. The way she softened the 'ch,' sound and husked the rest, making it sound forbidden and inappropriate, like sex talk at the dinner table.

Still she collected herself with a subtle chin lift, left the doorway, and ventured deeper into the medium-sized sparsely furnished space; her sight catching on multiple images, most of which were already deeply ingrained in her memory and had been for some years...

The shot of Quinn clubbing Rebecca Farce with her lethal right hook to become the only strawweight ever to reach a fifteen fight winning streak.

The four part series of framed shots that illustrated Quinn's three round war with a bloodied Elisa Beckett. A war that Quinn had ultimately lost via split judge’s decision.

The image of Quinn's strained, sweaty, animalistic expression - a direct consequence of how tight she'd squeezed once she'd secured that guillotine choke around Ashley Billerth's neck at _UFC 130_.

The – Rachel's gaze stopped on the high definition haunt that depicted Quinn choking _her_ out. Her breath stuttered. Her stomach twisted with the wish that she could go back and fight that fight again. But she couldn't, so she swallowed regret too big for her throat, and spun around to confront both Quinn and the floozy. "Well since you're asking, Quinn, I think that an athlete with such an extensive repertoire of accolades should have more self-respect than to be sneaking around with the help! But that's just me."

"Hey!" Anita protested, but it went ignored.

Rachel's dig lit Quinn's lips with a smirk. "And why should you care who's sneaking around with who?" she probed, smug in her suspicion, and when it met no immediate rebuttal, she issued three patronizing clicks of the tongue. "Jealousy is an awful thing, isn't it sweet cheeks?"

"Jealousy?" Rachel howled convincingly, knowing full well that Quinn had hit the nail on the head, but intent on playing it off anyway. "How did this become a jealousy issue? Champions should exhibit a certain level of decorum –"

"Yeah, because Puck's the _epitome_ of decorum."

"He's not the face of women's MMA! We must operate at a higher standard, as it has always been!"

"Fuck other people's standards. You didn't answer my question."

"Your accusation of jealousy is highly egregious and unfounded!" Rachel stated, getting ready to derail Quinn's accurate assessment and turn it into something that she knew it wasn't by way of feigned misunderstanding: "I'll admit that whilst you're the prettiest woman I've ever met, that doesn't mean I'm jealous of you or your ability to lure droves of groupies to your doorstep. I can assure you that I get _just_ as many offers from trash as you do. Just as much attention. I just don't entertain it because I have my bar set higher, and that is just one of _many_ ways that I will make a more respectable champion than you!"

Quinn's smirk faded, momentary confusion capturing her brow. She hadn't meant that Rachel was jealous _of_ her, but rather over her, and she'd been about to clarify that whilst studying Rachel's reaction for confirmation of said suspicion – when Anita suddenly pushed past her and stormed out of the room, muttering an over-it, "screw this," as she went.

Quinn let her go, her stare never leaving Rachel's lips which, oddly enough, weren't nearly as sensual when stationary. "This is becoming a habit – you scaring women away so that you can have me all to yourself. Aww," she cooed, all kinds of condescending as she clutched her own chest. "I'm flattered. Although an eccentric approach, it's really actually kind of romantic." She then deadpanned. "But you had your shot and you blew it."

Though dark sunglasses concealed Rachel's eyes, she shot Quinn a venomous glare. A venomous glare that Quinn felt from head to toe. "Oh get over yourself! There are young girls playing with your action figures right this very moment; who are looking up to you! As a champion, and the face of women's MMA, you would think that you'd employ greater discretion when it comes to your promiscuity!"

Quinn sighed, because, "you're actually trying to make this about the kids?"

"Word gets around," Rachel haughtily answered, recalling stories from multiple passing training partners who'd claimed to have hung out with the blonde and witnessed her magnetism first-hand. "It only takes a handful of groupies to run to _TMZ_ before your affinity for women whose life purpose is to get in with celebrities becomes public knowledge."

"You said word gets around. Care to name sources?"

"No. But know that the sources exist and that I hear everything."

"The sources exist? What, are you tracking down and interviewing women I've been with to see what you're missing?" Quinn purred. "Again: flattering, and I give you points for effort and originality, but if you want me – and I'm pretty sure you do, Rachel – you're gonna need to brush up on your seduction technique."

"You're unbelievably deluded, and I'm not missing a thing!" Rachel exclaimed. "Except for that strawweight championship belt!"

"And your sanity if you actually think I'm gonna let you take it!" came Quinn's brusque growl.

"The only way you're going to hold onto that belt is if you actively avoid me and accept Steel's offer at flyweight, and if you should decide to do that I'm going to be here waiting for you when you return," Rachel prodded.

She let the taunt hang between them and fished for a read on what Quinn's intentions likely were regarding the recent callout.

The sudden silence created space enough for Quinn to consider the last five minutes. A second wave of suspicion crept through her – her sudden disbelief over how she could have missed such an obvious tactic manifesting in a soft chuckle. "If that's what this was about – you coming in here to get under my skin so that I'll turn Steel down and stick to fighting you next, then you could've saved yourself the time and effort. You don't need to mark your territory; I'm _all_ yours."

"Really, your ability to turn everything into sordid innuendo is impressive. At least it would be if it wasn't so thoroughly nauseating!"

"You mean to tell me it doesn't make you feel special?" Quinn teased on a mock pout.

"You couldn't make me feel special if your life depended upon it!"

"Hmm." Quinn stepped into Rachel's space, so close she could feel her body heat and smell the lavender after tones of whatever perfume she'd spattered her neck with. "Sounds like a challenge."

"Hardly."

"That's a shame," Quinn said on a dirty wink.

"Oh? I thought I'd blown my chances with you?" Rachel reminded Quinn with an uppity raised eyebrow.

Quinn simply chuckled, unfazed, which saw Rachel's fingers threaten to ball into a fist at her side.

"Is this what typically works for you? Women of substance actually succumb to _this_?"

"I usually don't have to say or do anything, so no. But this is fun, Rachel. This little game is fun, fun, fun for me. And guess what?"

"What?"

"I think it might be fun for you too."

Rachel's nostrils flared. "My idea of fun is kicking you in the head and watching you fall like all the rest. But feel free to keep kidding yourself otherwise."

"How about this? This should make you feel _really_ special: they could offer me twenty million to fight Steel next and I'd still tell them no – that I want you and _only_ you. Always you."

Rachel's heart jackhammered as those words kissed her ears and dispersed warmth throughout her blood, lust flaring her nostrils and parting her lips just enough to betray how disarmed she was. A mannerism which – unbeknownst to her – really stood out given that her eyes were hidden. She thrust her arms folded as if to create a barrier between their bodies, and consciously stood up straighter, careful not to let the gentle press of her inner thighs stimulate the awakening hood of pleasure nerves that lived between them. "Well good! That's the _only_ way you're ever going to get me, Quinn – is in the cage!"

Quinn smiled in a way that was so real and at ease; Rachel found it unnerving.

"I'm only ever going to get you in the cage, sure. But let's be serious for a minute," Quinn suggested, and Rachel wasn't so oblivious that she missed the insinuation. "I'd like for us to main event the upcoming Madison Square Garden card, and I want to talk to Dana about making it happen. But first I need to know if it's even viable, so how's the foot?"

"A week or two from being ready for me to wrap it around your skull so thunderously that the ligament may tear again. Thanks for inquiring," Rachel chirped cattily, not really knowing how to take Quinn's sudden change of tone. Hostility was safe. Cordial chitchat, however, wasn't.

"Don't thank me, sweetie. Just show up to fight this time. I expect we're gonna take years off of each other's careers." Quinn grinned. "Gonna be fun."

"I don't have time to entertain your sadistic fantasies; I have somewhere to be. Now if you'll excuse me," an all business Rachel trailed off.

Without hesitation, Quinn stepped aside and created a clear path through which Rachel could leave, bidding her an antagonistically cheerful, "I'll see you on the _Lights Out_ set."

And when she was alone, surrounded by images of her career accomplishments, she quietly chuckled to herself, because when she'd told Rachel she'd wanted her and only her – always her, the brunette had almost visibly orgasmed, which was an accomplishment in its own right...

Once out of the elevator, Rachel zipped across the lobby straight to the reception desk. "I'd like to make a complaint regarding a fellow employee of yours!"

The man behind the desk looked up from the computer monitor. His swift examination of Rachel's palpable agitation caused him to grimace. "Whoa, what's – what sort of complaint?"

"The _person_ ," Rachel spat, "who you share reception duty with doesn't seem to be aware of the difference between taking care of this facility's guests and _taking_ _care_ of them!"

"Anita?"

"I didn't ask to know her name, though Anita rings a small bell if my recollection of her name tag rings accurate!"

"I'm sorry you've had this experience, Rachel. I –"

"No!" Rachel shook her head. "I'm not the one that she's been throwing herself at! But I've witnessed her misconduct with another athlete and although they may be willing to keep quiet about it, I'm not! See that those who sign Anita's pay checks hear about this and correct the issue. Thank you!"

And with that, Rachel left.

It was no comfort to her that whilst she was anxiously waiting for Dr. James Hannon to call her into his office, Quinn was probably somewhere feeling like she'd somehow won their previous exchange. Her cryptic smile towards the end of it had taunted Rachel the entire Uber ride over to the acclaimed clinic.

The irritating image lit a fire under her; her nerves could do as they pleased, but they were not going to stop her from seeing this appointment through, or from getting the most out of it! 

"Miss Berry, Dr. Hannon will see you now."

Rachel looked up at the older lady who was stood over her radiating a warm smile. This was the kind of hospitality that the UFC Performance Institute needed, she thought. Not Anita's kind.

"Thank you," she told the lady, collecting her things and standing. She puffed free an anxious breath, smoothed down her jacket, and entered the office.

She spotted Dr. Hannon right away. He was over by a fitted chest of oak wood cabinets wiping clean the whiteboard that lived on the adjacent wall. He stopped mid-motion, glanced over his shoulder, and smiled. "Good afternoon Miss Berry. Make yourself comfortable. I'll be with you in a second."

Rachel bid him a comprehensive nod and sat primly on the sofa. She ran her sight along the office's plush fixtures. There was a large glass window that overlooked the bustling city of sin, which might have struck her as luxurious if she hadn't been so paranoid about being spotted. This, what she was doing, was taboo in the MMA community after all. Not that anybody could see so high up. But that thought didn't do much to settle her.

What settled her were the office's personal touches. The family photos that sat on Dr. Hannon's desk. The quirky snow globes that frequented one shelf, the collection of classic die-cast vehicles that adorned another. She'd nerved herself out imagining some formal doctor who was going to create incisions in her mind so that he could siphon suppressed emotions out – emotions that she didn't particularly want unearthed.

But he was just a man. Just like she was just a woman.

"It's truly a pleasure to meet you, Rachel," the doctor said, falling into his chair with a notepad and pen in hand.

Rachel eyed the objects, but managed a small smile nonetheless. "I can't quite say the same," she confessed.

He chuckled. "You're not the only athlete to say that. But they all say they're glad they sought me out once they start to make improvements. So, Rachel, what are you hoping to get out of coming here today?"

Rachel put on a smile that collapsed as quickly as it had formed. "I-I'm just a little..." She closed her eyes and blew out an uneven breath, eyelids snapping back up to meet kind patient blue orbs. They filled her with ease enough to say: "I'm experiencing difficulty as it relates to a specific opponent, for a number of reasons that I doubt we'll be able to get to in this session alone, but I-I was hoping that you might help me to work through some of the emotions that are the driving force behind said difficulty."

There. She'd said it. It was out there.

Dr. Hannon hummed. "What kind of difficulty? What kind of emotions?"

Rachel almost snorted, because which emotions _hadn't_ Quinn Fabray coaxed out of her?

She decided that she would start simple. "Performance difficulty. Performance anxiety, which was never an obstacle for me throughout my Broadway career. I hadn't known that I was... susceptible to such a plight; I've always thrived under the bright lights. The grandest of world stages is where I belong, where I shine."

The doctor scribbled something to the notepad and pointed out, "Broadway doesn't demand the same things of you that fighting does. If you don't perform at your best on the Broadway stage, the consequences aren't life-threatening. Unlike with fighting. Thus the emotional experience will differ."

"You would think that I'd be much less likely to experience performance anxiety in the cage, given the risks. I do not want to be forty and unable to string coherent sentences together because I've sustained one too many concussions! There's simply _no_ room for anxiety!" Rachel spat, frustrated with herself.

"That line of reasoning sounds perfectly logical. But logic often has little bearing on emotion and the various ways in which we experience emotion. It also works the other way: knowing how high the stakes are equals pressure for many, which can bring on blockages in performance."

That was true, Rachel supposed. She'd won her debut fight with the premiere organization that was UFC, and she'd won it via unanimous judge's decision. But when Joe Rogan had stuck that microphone in her face post-fight and congratulated her, she'd bluntly told the world that the performance hadn't been her best – that she was a seasoned finisher who preferred not to leave her fate in the hands of the judges, who were often prone to scoring fights incorrectly and screwing fighters out of their victories and win bonuses.

Once her debut jitters were out of the way, she'd finished every other opponent. Except for Quinn... who had finished her.

And given her a concussion.

"Performance anxiety is extremely common in MMA, Rachel, despite ninety-nine percent of fighters denying that they experience any fear or anxiety at all. Blame the rampant culture of machismo. But this is about you. So, can you tell me how the performance anxiety manifests for you? Commonalities usually include vomiting before competing, or adrenaline dumps during competition, or intense fear leading up to competition. Performing better in practice than in competition." The doctor studied Rachel closely. Then he said, "unable to focus during competition. Easily overwhelmed and distracted."

Rachel gulped at that last one. "My debut fight in the UFC saw me a little overwhelmed. But nothing too serious. Not to where I froze up – which has only ever happened one time with one opponent," she felt the need to quickly clarify, though there was no reason to; Dr. Hannon had not a morsel of judgement about him. "My fight with Quinn Fabray, which was years ago. But I'm concerned that what happened then might happen again... the next time I see her in the cage. She's the only one ever to beat me, and I'm convinced that it was due to me being overwhelmed and unable to focus in the moment."

"Do you know why you were overwhelmed?"

Rachel tucked some hair behind her ear. "Yes."

"Why?"

"I've been an avid follower of Quinn's career since the beginning, and naturally I fell into the trap of idolizing her talents. When I began my professional career in the one-hundred-and-fifteen pound strawweight division, she was fighting at flyweight. The idea that we might ever cross paths hadn't occurred to me. But then she dropped down to strawweight, and the possibility of fighting the woman who had inspired me so greatly throughout the years became intriguing."

"Intriguing because you might get to test your own skills against hers?" Dr. Hannon gently probed.

"Precisely!"

"So, in your own words, what went wrong?"

"I... I stepped into the cage and as I was stood across from her, it suddenly dawned on me that I was about to fight Quinn Fabray. The years I'd spent tracking the development of her skills, knowing what she was capable of, my adoration for her – it all hit me. And..." Rachel trailed off, lost in cruel history. "I suppose I lost sight of what _I_ was capable of? It became about avoiding her weapons rather than imposing my own. I was a character in _her_ movie, all of her accomplishments running at the forefront of my mind, and I just didn't know how to turn that off and turn my killer instinct on."

"That makes sense," the doctor encouraged whilst he wrote something else to the notepad. "Can you describe what the sensations in your body were like when those things dawned on you?"

Rachel didn't even have to think about it; the memory haunted her regularly. "Panic. Racing heart. Tightness of the muscles. A cloudiness, like someone had draped a thick white sheet over my head," she answered on a slight grimace. "I-I tried to remain calm, but I've always had an incredibly active mind, which allowed other worrisome thoughts, like my parents, who worry themselves half to death every time I sign a bout agreement. The panic simply took over."

Finished writing, Dr. Hannon set the pen and notepad down on his lap. "Rachel, when you feel those sensations it's your body communicating with you. Your body taking direction from your thoughts. Those sensations don't have to be any more or any less meaningful than that, as making them more meaningful will often cause them to proliferate to the point where they become an impairment. You can choose to see those sensations as mere indicators of unhelpful thought instead of perceiving them as catastrophes, and as a result your body won't respond like you're experiencing a catastrophe. We have ways to train that, which we'll explore if you wish. In your specific case, it appears that your body was communicating that the thoughts you were thinking were not conducive to the recipe for success that you'd previously agreed upon with yourself. On some level it seems you were aware that you'd turned Quinn into this infallible – and possibility unbeatable – figure, which brought on the mindset that you were in danger. Your body responded to that danger, and when you attempted to calm yourself down to no avail you panicked further, which resulted in the overwhelming feeling, as well as the performance blockage."

Rachel digested the information and pleaded, "so what must I do to prevent this from occurring again? Even if it's so that she beats me again... I-I will not rest until I have gone toe to toe with Quinn Fabry in a manner that I deem respectable!"

Dr. Hannon smiled. This was his favorite part of the job: helping fighters to help themselves. "Not to minimize your experience, but this is a mild case of performance anxiety. Many fighters experience this and more with every fight. The fact that your anxiety occurs in specific trigger situations makes it much easier to pinpoint and target for improvement."

"Okay," Rachel breathed out, somewhat set at ease.

"Firstly, I want you to stop thinking of what happened as a fixed flaw," he advised. "You simply didn't have the tools to jump that hurdle at the time. But that's changeable. It's workable, and performance anxiety doesn't have to be a career long hindrance."

Like the sweetest song, that statement took the remaining stiffness out of Rachel's trunk, and for the first time since sitting she relaxed into the sofa.

"Now, Rachel, you mentioned that you have an active mind. How do you respond to meditation?"

"Yoga is one of my favorite things, but as far as regular meditation goes I'm not one who can quiet brain chatter all that effectively."

The doctor nodded like his suspicions had been confirmed. "You seem to be the type of personality that would benefit from channeling your thought activity into a certain mindset, rather than trying to calm everything down so that flow-state can take over." He smirked playfully and highlighted, "the exact opposite to Quinn it seems."

"I can't say I'm surprised. If she were to say that the sky was blue, I'd say it was green," Rachel joked, finally feeling like there was light at the end of the tunnel. Now to reach it, she thought.

"I want you to incorporate a new technique into your daily routine. You train your body, but it's just as important to train the mind – if not more, as it's often said that this sport is ninety percent mental and ten percent physical. What good are the physical tools if the mind doesn't allow the body to implement them?"

Rachel was in complete agreement! Her brow furrowed in concentration, ears set to devour every drop of knowledge that Dr. Hannon was willing to impart.

"The technique is very simple."

"What is it?"

"Get excited," Dr. Hannon revealed, to which Rachel raised both brows skeptically.

The doctor chortled out, "don't be so quick to leave me a bad review on Yelp just yet."

"It's the first thing I intend to do once I leave this office," Rachel quipped back, hopeful that there was something she was missing.

"Rather than focusing on the things that make Quinn great and diminishing yourself in the process, which _will_ play into your sense of panic, you can choose to practice seeing the scenario any number of different ways, and consequently draw different responses from your body and mind. Responses that will not only eradicate panic, but foster more confidence."

Sensing that his client still wasn't convinced, Dr. Hannon reached for his desk and pulled a thin collection of papers from it. "These are several scientific research papers on studies that were conducted at Harvard. They were later was published online in APA’s _Journal of Experimental Psychology: General_ ," he explained. "Without going into too much detail – and I'll photocopy these for you to take home and go over – research has shown that the way we talk or think about our feelings impacts strongly upon how we actually feel, and our ability to direct focus resources towards any one desired result. When we feel anxious and attempt to calm down, we're often doubling down thinking about the things that could go wrong, making the anxiety worse. When we're excited we're thinking about how things could go well, which completely shifts our focus, loosens us up, and allows for greater creativity, confidence, and success. These studies found, in several separate trials that involved high anxiety feats, that when people told themselves that they were excited prior to undergoing high anxiety tasks, they performed with much more confidence and at a higher success rate than those who told themselves that they were calm or anxious."

"Can I see those?" Rachel asked, not out of skepticism but out of fascination.

"Of course. Here."

Rachel took the papers and ran a keen eye over the information, flipping from page to page as the urge took her.

_In another experiment, involving karaoke, 113 participants (54 men and 59 women) were randomly assigned to say that they were anxious, excited, calm, angry or sad before singing a popular rock song on a video game console. All of the participants monitored their heart rates using a pulse meter strapped onto a finger to measure their anxiety._

_Participants who said they were excited scored an average of 80 percent on the song based on their pitch, rhythm and volume as measured by the video game’s rating system. They reported even pulse rates. Those who said they were calm, angry or sad scored an average of 69 percent, compared to 53 percent for those who said they were anxious. They reported higher pulse rates. Participants who said they were excited also reported feeling more excited and confident in their singing ability._

_"Since both anxiety and excitement are emotional states characterized by high arousal, it is easier to convert anxiety into excitement rather than trying to calm down to combat performance anxiety," said Brooks, an assistant professor of business administration at Harvard Business School._

_“When you feel anxious, you’re ruminating too much and focusing on potential threats,” Brooks said. “In those circumstances, people should try to focus on the potential opportunities. It resets the mind's entire trajectory and motivation. It really does pay to be positive, and people should say they are excited. Even if they don’t believe it at first, saying ‘I’m excited’ out loud increases authentic feelings of excitement.”_

"Wow," Rachel awed, looking to the doctor. "This is incredible. It almost seems too simple to be true."

"Its efficacy is derived from its simplicity. Most people intuitively think that they need to calm down when anxious. But going from high arousal to serenity in one jump just isn't a practical leap. With this technique you bridge that gap – take your high arousal and turn it into a more positive state of high arousal. It's a powerful technique that has worked wonders for many fighters, as well as figures in other high stress professional fields. I'd like to go through a visualization exercise with you so that you can experience the benefits of this technique on a small scale. Are you willing to participate?"

"Certainly, but before we proceed I want to address another issue that I've been... grappling with."

"Sure, go ahead."

"I've been experiencing... feelings..."

"Yes," the doctor urged.

Rachel rolled her eyes at herself, her cheeks aflame; she was really about to admit this out loud. Her fingers began to fiddle with the strap of her purse, which was beginning to fray slightly.

Dr. Hannon sat there, waiting.

"Feelings a-as it pertains to Quinn." Rachel's gaze flickered up to the doctor's, then quickly fell to her purse strap again. "I'm concerned that ignoring them may no longer be a-a viable approach towards performing at my best."

"In what capacity?"

"Despite my profession, I'm not a violent person; it's always been about the excitement of high stakes competition for me. But for a second, yesterday, I completely lost control and lashed out at Quinn, due to her stirring up feelings that I've been hell bent on ignoring. They made themselves known in an undeniable way, and I-I panicked."

"Sexual feelings?"

Rachel nodded just barely, asking her lap, "is it that obvious?"

"Though your second fight with Quinn didn't happen, I followed the build-up. I will say that there's... a certain static – a chemistry that percolates when the two of you go back and forth."

"Fantastic," Rachel mumbled flatly.

"How do you feel these sexual feelings play into your ability to compete with her?"

"They're actually what spurred me to book this appointment on such short notice. After what happened yesterday – realizing that suppressing such feelings perhaps isn't as helpful as I initially deemed. You remember: I talked about idolizing her."

"Yes."

"Well given my history of faltering when it comes to her, I felt that I couldn't afford to let infatuation become another hindering factor," Rachel explained. "But it seems that in my effort to keep her at a distance while simultaneously trying to get inside of her head, the only one who's head I've managed to get inside of is my own," she muttered. "The goal is to be in control. Not out of control, and much as Quinn bashes my buttons, when I pushed her yesterday, it occurred to me that I needed to do something to reclaim control you know?"

Dr. Hannon issued her a reassuring smile. "I certainly do."

"I just, I really hate how in control she always seems. How perceptive she is," Rachel added, thinking back to her previous encounter with the blonde – Quinn's easy smile. "She figured out that a lot of my hostility towards her is simply an attempt at mental warfare, and now she's being more obnoxious than ever! So obnoxious that I have – albeit a morally compromised thought, I admit – considered flirting back, because if anything will throw her off it would likely be me reciprocating her advances. She wouldn't expect that."

"I won't encourage that idea."

"Why not, doc? If I pretended to date her it'd be killing two birds with one stone."

Dr. Hannon frowned curiously. "I know you're not serious – that you're just frustrated. But how so would that be killing two birds with one stone?"

"The sex, for one," Rachel answered bluntly. "That would satiate the suppressed urges. And if she was silly enough to become emotionally attached to me, I could tear her heart out right before we fight, and much more than any insult I could hurl her way that would destabilize her composure, just like she disrupts mine."

"That's an interesting sequence," the doctor said. "With the mental warfare, it's not just simple mental warfare to you. You're invested in it. Trying to even things out with it. You feel a lack of composure, so you want her to feel that also, only she's not giving an inch. I understand how frustrating that must be, but the solution lies within focusing on what you can control, which is yourself. Not Quinn."

"I'm not actually going to put that sequence into practice," Rachel backtracked, somewhat shamed by her admission.

"You know, Rachel, I really appreciate your willingness to be so candid; I usually have to pry information out of fighters in the first session. But I can see that your career really means something to you, and that you're willing to put the work in. So for now, I will take you through the aforementioned visualization exercise, and then we can arrange further sessions wherein we'll unpack this particular issue and look to explore practical solutions that will help you to manage your focus. Sound like a plan?"

Rachel drew in a large breath and sighed it free from lips that were slightly upturned at the corners. "Yes."

* * *

 

"Wait, are you actually gonna take the fight with Steel?" Brittany asked on a confused frown – quickly clutching a pocket in the limousine door as the driver rounded a corner particularly sharp.

"Hey! Drive like you got some sense!" Santana shouted up front, to which the driver mouthed an apology in the rear view mirror and slowed the vehicle to a steady cruise.

In response to Brittany's question, Quinn leaned her head against the window and puffed out an over-it breath, already tired of hearing about Steel. She'd taken a look at her social media accounts earlier to find that thousands of excited fans as well as MMA journalists had tweeted and tagged her, all salivating over the idea that their beloved super fight might actually be in the works.

And now Brittany, who was ranked number seven in the world at flyweight, was pressing her for an answer.

"I'm focused on Berry," Quinn told her, keeping it vague.

Santana passed a look between her best friend and her fiancée, sensing the air thicken. "Baby, I thought you weren't looking to return until next year?" she gently asked.

"Yeah, but if Q beats Steel and she's still champ when I start fighting again –"

"I'll never fight you," Quinn vowed, looking to settle this here and now. "If I do end up taking the fight and winning the belt, B, I'll probably defend the title once and then vacate it."

"So you are planning on fighting Steel?" Brittany persisted, brow still pinched.

"She's calling me out..." Quinn trailed off as if that fact meant that, yes, she absolutely _had_ to accept the challenge.

"This totally isn't cool."

"B –"

"You can't just, like, vacate the belt. Whoever wins it after that will be seen as a paper champion because nobody ever actually beat you for it. I don't wanna be a paper champion when I become champion."

Santana reached over and slid her hand over Brittany's. "Britt –"

"No," Brittany grumbled as she shrugged off the soft touch. "Wait, did you know about this?" she demanded, turning her dissatisfaction on Santana, who ran her fingers back through shoulder length raven and sighed, which was all the confirmation that Brittany needed. "You suck," she whined.

"I thought you were planning on taking more time off!" the latina argued. "I didn't think it would be a thing. Obviously I was wrong."

"How did you not see problems with this? You too Q? I totally shoulda stayed at the strip club and made it rain some more on Poppin' Cherry. You guys suck!"

There and then Quinn decided:  "It's cool, I won't take the fight. Let's talk about something else."

Problem solved.

Except it wasn't, because with every second of tense silence that stretched on, Brittany began to feel more and more like an asshole.

Coming off of two losses in a row, she'd taken a year off after suffering a back injury, and although she was now in perfect health she'd decided to extend her break from the octagon, having enjoyed the luxury of not being sore all the time and not having to travel all over the world, as well as the novelty of having free time to spend with loved ones. The break had recharged her – renewed her hunger for the fight game, and she was now ready to make another run for the title. If Quinn moved up to flyweight to capture the title it would muddy the division's waters. But at the same time, Brittany was acutely aware of the fact that if Quinn turned this opportunity down, she stood to lose fans, favor with the UFC's higher-ups, and possibly the biggest payday of her career.

"Can't you fight Steel at a catchweight instead? Somewhere between strawweight and flyweight, like a-hundred-and-twenty pounds?" she suggested, leaning her head on Santana's shoulder, the small act of intimacy an apology of sorts. "I mean, that'd for sure squish your chance to be the first to hold two different belts simultaneously, but you'll still make bank, you'll get to cream Steel, the fans all get what they want, and nobody's belt will be on the line – both divisions intact."

Quinn turned her head to look at her somewhat sheepish friend. Brittany's suggestion wasn't a terrible one. "Maybe," Quinn said, "but honestly? I really am just focused on Berry right now. All that other stuff can wait."

From where her head lay on Santana's shoulder, Brittany peered up at her fiancée and murmured, "sorry I got pissy."

"I knew I shouldn't've let you down that third shot. Always were a lightweight – no, stop!" Santana giggled, feeling knowing fingers creep to the most ticklish spot in her rib cage and prod. She wriggled to escape the intensifying attack – which suddenly ceased when her flailing foot crashed into Quinn's shin, who shot both her and Brittany a murderous look.

"I'm leaving you two in the car if you can't behave!"

"Sorry," Brittany apologized.

"We can behave when we're dead," Santana dismissed it. "Besides, you're a fighter. You better woman up and shake that shit off."

Quinn side-eyed the unapologetic latina something stern. "It didn't hurt, wise-ass. I just don't like being kicked when I'm not getting paid for it."

"Fair point. So what type of shit are you gonna ask Berry during the _Lights Out_ ep?"

"Ask her the really juicy stuff," Brittany encouraged, "or I'm crashing the set to ask what fans really wanna know."

"What, like which way she puts toilet roll on a holder?" Santana suggested.

"Exactly."

"Somehow I don't think the homeless kid's charity that I chose to donate my share of the video proceeds to would appreciate that," Quinn said.

Brittany had barely heard a word, mind racing with all the possibilities – "Ooh! Ask her if she's the type of masturbator to hold off so that she can orgasm when the porn stars do," she blurted.

Quinn crumpled in on herself, shoulders quaking with a silent laughter whose grip had completely taken her over. Lifting her head back up with a final fluttering chuckle, she shook her head from side to side as she peered beyond her window at some passing teens, because only Brittany's wayward mind would conceive something like _that_.

"What? That's totally what everyone wants to know," Brittany said, delivery so deadpan that not even Santana could tell if she was joking or not.

They turned into a parking lot that surrounded a large three-story building which boasted a revolving glass door entrance. Above it, bolted into the red brickwork, hung the chrome letters: _UFC Corporate Studios_.

The driver rolled to a stop just before the building and powered off the engine, all three women stepping out of the limousine and shutting their respective doors with a finalized clunk.

A matter of habit; Santana's fingers interlinked with Brittany's, their hands clasping one another as they fell into step on their gait towards the studio.

"Oh fuck! Look! Look! It's the unholy trinity! We should ask for an autograph, dude!"

"No, doofus. We're asking for a picture."

The fanatical commotion caused Quinn to glance back, where she saw the teens that she'd seen walking the sidewalk not far back. "We've been spotted. Seven o'clock," she alerted Brittany and Santana, who also tossed a look back to see the two boys that were fast approaching.

"Great. Cue the stupid questions," Santana muttered.

"Holy shit! It's so freakin' cool to see you guys in real life! I mean, I know Las Vegas is like the fight capital of the world, but I never thought I'd see the unholy trinity!" the one with the spiky green mohawk – or as Santana would've called it: the haircut that looked like a lost bet – exclaimed.

Quinn smiled his way, humbled by his enthusiasm, to which he just stared dumbly and visibly gulped.

The other boy, who was much more composed and clean cut, swatted his friend in the chest and instructed, "chill," before he asked, "sorry to bug you but we're big fans of you guys. Can we get a picture please?"

Santana thrust out her palm. "It'll be ten dollars each for a picture. Time is money."

Brittany snickered but shook her head, clarifying for the boys that, "she's just kidding. Sure you can get a picture."

"Let's make it fast though," Quinn hurried them after a quick glance between her watch and the building's revolving glass doors. "How do you wanna do this?"

The question, urging as it had been, saw the boy with the mohawk almost drop his cell phone in his haste to dislodge it from his jacket pocket. "Oops," he acknowledged with a chagrined smile. Face on fire, he scrambled to place himself just in front of the three hot badasses, centering his position between them as he held his phone's camera up to their image with one hand and tossed up a peace sign with the other. "Ready?"

"Sure."

"Go 'head."

"Capture our souls."

The chorused utterances resulted in a quick flash and a clicking sound – and a face-splitting smile on the awed boy's part. He spun around to face the three women and pressed his palms together in prayer-like gratitude. "Thank you! All my friends are gonna be stupid jealous!"

"It's no thing," Brittany told him, matching his smile with a friendly one.

The other boy spoke up then: "Can I just get a picture with Quinn?" He tossed Santana and Brittany an indifferent, "no offense."

"Every offense taken," Santana shot back, dry with it, which tugged an amused laugh from Quinn.

Despite the slight awkwardness of his request, the boy wasn't yet done: "I was thinking just now that it'd be super cool if I got a pic of you putting me in a headlock? My brother will lose his mind when he sees it."

Quinn's mirth floated away. She quickly shook her head. "I'm not putting you in a headlock."

"Not a real one," the teen clarified, tone somewhat duh-ing but not brazen enough to carry offense. "I don't wanna lose my head," he chuckled. "Just, you know" – He gestured to Quinn's hands and his neck – "make the pose look halfway convincing, and I'll get my friend to take the shot."

It was a common enough pose request, Quinn reasoned, recalling countless fan pictures that she'd seen over the years. There were even pictures of fighters faux-uppercutting fans who'd made themselves go cross-eyed at the time of capture floating around.

She cast aside all reservations and slipped a loose headlock on the shorter boy, who easily bent over with her gentle guiding force. Secure in the pose, he gave his friend the thumbs up. "Cheese."

_Click_!

"Thanks!" the boy exclaimed, returning to his vertical form on a controlled grin that promised to ravage his entire face the moment he was alone.

"No problem." Quinn stole another look at her watch. "We're gonna head off but it was fun meeting you."

"You too! All of you! Can't wait for you to make your comeback, Brittany! Flyweight needs your magic bad! – And Quinn, I know you're gonna flatline Berry again!"

Inside of the building, sat before her dressing room mirror getting her make-up done, Rachel considered the session that she'd just undergone with Dr. Hannon. She reached into herself and felt around; how did she feel now that the first session was out of the way? Well, it hadn't been a quick fix-all solution, which was a common disclaimer in sports psychology, but it had reassured her that there were solid goals that she could work towards to better her mental approach, and consequently her performance in the cage – not just with Quinn, but overall! She'd gotten many things off of her chest, no longer alone with the burdensome weight, and she felt that she'd been given a perspective enhancement. One that she felt would better equip her for the imminent _Lights Out_ shoot with Quinn.

For the first time in a while, she directed a soft smile at her reflection, proud of the woman looking back at her. To the left of her reflection sat Noah, who was kicked back on the sofa, his attention bouncing between whatever he was doing on his phone and the casual chitchat that he was making with the make-up artist.

He'd pestered Rachel to tell him where she'd spent the afternoon the entire limousine ride to the studio, accusing her of all sorts – from moving dead bodies, to gambling, to pissing away her fortunes on male strippers who were probably gay, because they always were – but she'd kept tight-lipped about the appointment, not yet ready for everyone to know, though she had texted her fathers and casually dropped it in amongst inquiries about how their day was going, to which they'd predictably ignored her inquiries in favor of their own.

"I just got word that Quinn has arrived and is now in make-up," the make-up artist announced in what was an almost robotic – but mostly just focused – repeat of what her ear piece had told her. She dusted a touch more foundation over Rachel's forehead and chirped, "that's you finished. Your microphone's already been fitted, so you can wait on set if you want, or stick around here for a while until Quinn's ready."

"I used to be Broadway's number one starlet. I wait for no one, least of all Quinn Fabray," Rachel joked, in a thoroughly convincing Dickensian English accent that scored her a laugh from both Noah and the make-up lady.

"How you feelin' Rach?" Noah checked, knowing Rachel well enough to know that her goofing around didn’t necessarily mean that she was okay.

"Feeling well enough to pull out my English accent apparently, so: pretty good. Thanks for asking, and thanks for coming to Vegas with me."

Noah winked. "Any time babe."

Rachel smiled and stood. She gave her simple attire – blue skinny jeans, black heels, and a white V-neck t-shirt – the once over in the mirror. Satisfied that her outfit was casual enough to meet production requirements whilst still flattering her, she thanked the make-up artist and asked, "Noah, are you coming?" 

"Not any time soon," he grumbled distractedly at his phone, though he stood up and began to trail behind her. Some groupie who'd slid into his DM's and was now playing hard to get, Rachel assumed on an eye roll.

Taking care to avoid the labyrinth of leads and cables that were connected to various equipment, Rachel parted from Noah and issued various production team members an acknowledging smile as she walked onto the set that had played backdrop to so many other _Lights Out_ episodes. Except now there were two steel chairs placed either side of the table instead of one, the low-tuned set lights glimmering in each shiny frame.

"Ready to slit your wrist and bleed out so that fans can get a glimpse into who you are?"

Rachel turned around to face the banterful voice – met with former UFC fighter turned fight analyst and commentator, Kenny Florian. She radiated a smile at the man who she'd always appreciated looking at; his dark coiffed hair, strong dark eyes, dark beard, and an almost mysterious demeanor, which seemed to originate from the slightly annoyed frown that, come happiness, shock, or devastation, always seemed to be etched into his brow.

"That's a little dramatic, Kenny, even by Rachel Berry standards," she humored him. "I've always been forthcoming in interviews, so fans perhaps already know much of what there is to know. How have you been? It's been some time since we spoke thanks to my recent time off."

"Yeah, I've been good thanks." He nodded home his statement with a few stiff dips of the head, like things perhaps weren't as good as he was portraying. But Rachel wasn't sure if she was reading too much into it. "I'll be taking some time off soon myself though. The wife isn't so happy about all the traveling I've been doing lately."

_Marriage problems; that'll be what he's not mentioning,_ Rachel surmised. "I don't blame your wife for wanting you home more," she said. "Will you be voicing over this _Lights Out_ episode instead of Brian Stann?"

"Yeah. I'm –"

"Sorry to interrupt," one of the production runners interjected just then, "but we sent our guy to a nearby café to get refreshments. He's there now. Do you guys want anything before we start shooting?" she asked, glancing between them, pen poised at the ready over a thin piece of cardboard that already had items scribbled on it.

Rachel shook her head in polite decline and looked to Kenny expectantly, whose expression fell upon a deliberative grimace. He ummed and ahed...

"Um – Alright! Well since you twisted my arm, I'll get an iced donut," he eventually settled upon, bidding the runner a grateful nod that came off a little formal.

But that was Kenny; Rachel quietly chuckled to herself.

"Drop the girlish giggle, home wrecker; he's married," Santana spat from out of nowhere, immediately looking to the production runner despite Rachel's searing glare. "I was in the ladies when you swung by Quinn's dressing room, but I _want_ ," she drawled, "a vanilla latte with a shot of banana syrup, and get Brittany a parfait – don’t matter which one as long as it has peanut butter. You get all that?"

The production runner hesitated to put pen to cardboard, finally giving in to a wince and just admitting, "we're only really supposed to... provide food for the cast and production crew."

"Why come I don't see anyone putting pen to paper?" Santana persisted, as if the runner hadn't said anything at all.

"I'm, uh, sure it won't break production budget, Linda," Kenny spoke up before the tension could thicken any further. The runner nodded once at him and took off to make the call, Santana shooting Kenny a wink.

"What up Florian?"

"Certainly not his spirits now that you've cursed us with your presence!" Rachel bit irritability. "Why don't you flounce back off into obscurity, where I don't have to stomach you?"

"Pipe down, Berry, afores I get Quinn out here to subdue you with a choke." Santana paused to free a derisive laugh and added, "again," before ambling off to the far side of the set, opposite where Puck and a few others were stood around messing with their phones.

Rachel pulled in a calming breath but blew it out a little more harshly than she'd wanted to. "That woman is an absolute nightmare! It figures that Quinn would keep her close. Serpents of a similar slither flock together. And pay Lopez no mind regarding her home wrecker remark –"

Kenny chuckled reassuringly. "I'm not," he said. "And I know you'll balk at this but Fabray's never been anything less than polite to me. She's an astute and charming woman that transforms when – well, when you're in the vicinity it seems."

"No balking. But by their fruits you shall know them, right? Anybody who keeps a creature like Santana Lopez around clearly has deficiencies where it matters most. And the reason why Quinn transforms when I'm close by is because she knows that I have what it takes to end her title reign before it even gets started!"

"Hey, don't get too fired up," Kenny teased, tapping her upper arm with the back of his hand. "We don't want a fight breaking out between you and Fabray once the cameras start rolling."

"Oh? I thought that was what people were tuning in for. Nevertheless, I'm a consummate professional, and thus will be on form once those cameras do start rolling. My nickname isn't Showtime for nothing. We won’t come to blows, but it's inevitable that she will say something that I find unpalatable." Rachel shrugged a shoulder, chin held high. "I can't see myself not retaliating. But that's what people want to see, so everybody wins."

"I have no doubt that you'll deliver the goods." Kenny smiled. "I'll leave you to get situated. Have fun shooting the ep."

And with that he stepped over the cables that snaked the floor and headed towards the sound department.

Rachel blew out a casual breath. She sat down on the steel chair closest to her, the one with her name card taped to it. The adjacent table, which was between her seat and Quinn's, housed a host of cue cards with the UFC logo printed on them – fan questions, Rachel guessed, and there was a small vase that contained an artificial red rose. The set dresser's idea of a joke, she theorized, casting an irritated glance towards various crew members who looked like they might have been the culprit.

"Excuse me!" she called out towards one of them, grabbing the vase and holding it towards him, "could you get rid of this? Whilst I realize that it was perhaps a joke on someone's part, it feels extremely out of place given that Quinn and I are adversaries. Thank you." She thrust it into the crew member's hand, hoping never to see it again.

Yes, she was sexually attracted to Quinn. But if that fact was obvious enough that Dr. Hannon, and clearly others, knew it from simply watching them interact, she didn't want anything around that might amplify that narrative in the eyes of the masses. She also didn't want to give Quinn any ammunition. They were rivals who were going to physically harm one another, and that was how their fight needed to be promoted.

Ten minutes passed before the runner who'd collected everybody's orders reappeared, this time with a large brown paper bag, which she placed on a nearby table so that she could easier dole out its contents.

Half paying attention to her phone, the other half to her surroundings, Rachel's head snapped up when the runner called, "who was the toffee Frappuccino for? Nobody's claiming it."

Recalling her conversation with Mike regarding the picture that Quinn had taken with his son after ordering said drink, Rachel didn't even think about it, her lips blurting, "it's Quinn's! Here, leave it on this table," she suggested to the runner, who hesitated before doing as asked. "Don't fret; I'm not going to slip poison into it. If she ever leaves her dressing room, I'll see that the beverage finds its way to her."

Off a long sip of her latte, Santana raised an intrigued eyebrow, wondering how the midget had known Quinn's drink.

And she wasn't the only one who was curious as to how that information had found Rachel with such certainty...

Making her way across the space, towards the set, Quinn thumbed through the libraries of her mind for anything that might clue her in. It wasn't like it was public knowledge that she regularly ordered toffee Frappuccinos – or maybe a fan had seen her with one, and the information had found its way onto an online forum board or two.

Fine, but that still didn't really explain how Rachel knew, Quinn concluded.

"How'd you know my order?"

A pale hand reached across Rachel just then, its fingers clasping the warm beverage and scooping it up. The brunette slipped her phone into her pocket and peered up at her adversary, who seemed to be awaiting an answer.

An answer that she wasn't going to get.

"Never you mind, Quinn."

Quinn raked her fingers back through her hair, mussing it to one side like sex itself before she husked, "you know, you don't _have_ to gather up info on me through alternative means Rachy Rach. Anything you wanna know, you just have to ask."

"I think I'll save my questions for when the cameras start rolling. Perhaps you should do the same."

"Speaking of when the cameras start rolling, how do you wanna play the promotion?" Quinn asked. "Whether we like it or not we're business partners, so are we going at it or are we keeping it classy and civil? I'm cool with whatever."

"I'd suggest that you keep your guard up," was all that Rachel offered, all too happy to keep Quinn on her toes – taking far too much pleasure in it. "But do as you please because I'm going to, Quinnie Quinn."

"Alright, well if I should decide to verbally destroy you in front of all these people I don't want any tears."

"Oh Quinn, no, _please_ don't destroy me," Rachel mock plead, and it was while she flailed her hands about theatrically that Quinn, with consideration for her hot drink, removed her jacket and hung it over her forearm.

The theatrics dwindled until Rachel's hands flopped to her lap, the space between her brows pinching as she noted the discrepancy between her own apparel and Quinn's, which was comprised of a stylish pink crop-top sweater, gray slim-fit jeans that were turned up at the ankles, and nude laced-up ankle boots that had a high enough heel to tip them into the glamour category.

"Why Rachel, you old dog you; are you checking me out?"

"Only in your mind. Only ever in your mind. I'm simply wondering whether or not you received the casual dress memo. Clearly you didn't."

"Sweetheart, this is casual dress for me – but you probably knew that already with all the spies you keep."

On another sweep of the blonde's outfit, Rachel's eyes found Quinn's exposed midriff, traveling the smooth plain of skin; the neat navel that sat center of creamy abs that were defined but not overstated.

Chestnut eyes quickly averted, Rachel drawing in a sharp nasal breath as if to reset her focus.

"I'm beginning to feel like you might be obsessed with me, short stack. It's okay sweetie; acceptance is the first step."

Rachel scoffed indifference, refusing to be outwardly riled by the taunt. But Quinn wasn't done.

"First I find out you're keeping tabs on all my supposed hook-ups, and now you somehow know my favorite drink. And it's weird that you keep showing up when I'm with other women. I mean, what would you think if you were me?"

Rachel didn't miss a beat. "I'd think that I was deeply misguided, misled by my own wishful thinking."

Quinn released a short patronizing hum on a long sip of her drink, all the while staring Rachel in the eye.

"You can find photos of me on the UFC website, Quinn. Perhaps download them so that you aren't so tempted to leer when we're within each other's presence."

Quinn hummed again, this time in cavalier dismissal of the brunette's snarky suggestion. "That's not gonna cut it. I prefer you live and in street clothes, so just sit there and be quiet whilst I salivate," she goaded, performing a salacious shudder that she'd only half been into, because the truth was: the simplicity of Rachel's outfit only further beautified her, though not in a sexual capacity. It was more a domestic beauty that painted across the landscapes of Quinn's mind: images of the brunette moving around her home tidying up, or –

A loud jarring clap tugged the two women out of their bubble. "Alright ladies! We're going for an intimate vibe – authentic!" Lee Sparx, the director, announced. "We're gonna clear mostly everyone out in a moment and start filming, so if you – Quinn – could take a seat, and we’ll fit you with a mic. You'll both answer questions in the order set by the cue cards until they've been depleted, with Rachel going first. The opening question will address you both. After that they'll be singular. Any questions?"

"No," both women simultaneously uttered.

Quinn held her Frappuccino out for a nearby crew member to take, but when his fingers closed around it she held on, her other hand threatening a jesting fist. "This better not find its way back to me empty or tampered with."

"Of course not," he laughed, ducking his head shyly as he carefully cupped the warm beverage and carried it away.

Rachel rolled her eyes.

"I hope you're ready, Rach. This is going to be fun, fun, fun," Quinn chimed without a care in the world.

* * *

**Tell me what you thought.**

**Author's Note:**

> If there were any MMA (mixed martial arts) terms that you didn't understand, let me know and I will explain, or just google it :) Tell me what you thought :)


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